


A Con Artist's Guide to Being a Better Man

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Bodyswap, Fic, First Time, M/M, Mindwiping, Truth Serum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-28 23:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Neal and Clinton swap bodies, and Mozzie's paranoia spirals out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Con Artist's Guide to Being a Better Man

**Author's Note:**

> Set after 3.01.
> 
> A million thanks to ficfinishing and my wonderful first readers, bientot, gnomi and mergatrude, who cheered me through the first draft, to wihluta for translation, and to my awesome, patient, generous betas, cyphomandra and gnomi. *flowers and chocolates*

## Prologue

Clinton sat at his breakfast bar, drank a mouthful of beer and contemplated his OKCupid profile, weighing the pros and cons of changing his sexual orientation status to "bisexual." Something in the last few days had triggered the urge to change it, he was sure; something that lurked at the back of his mind but wouldn't resolve into an actual memory. For that matter, the whole week was kind of a blur. Maybe he'd been hitting the booze too hard. He glanced at the beer bottle in his hand and went to pour it out into the sink. There were a lot of empties in his recycling bin. Did he have a problem?

A sharp knock on the front door startled him out of his reverie. He closed his laptop and went to answer it, the hardwood floor cool under his bare feet, but when he opened the door, there was no one outside. It was past ten o'clock, and the night was clear and crisp. There was a faint twinkle of stars beyond the bare trees and the streetlights. No one in sight. Clinton was about to write off the knock as an auditory hallucination when he heard someone speak. No, they were singing. Crooning unintelligibly.

Clinton recognized that voice. "Caffrey?" He pushed through the gate and went up onto the pavement, and sure enough, there was Neal Caffrey sprawled on the brownstone steps to Clinton's upstairs neighbors' apartment, slurring his words as he sang something old fashioned and jazzy under his breath.

He broke off when he saw Clinton.

"Hey," he said, loudly. "Am I glad to see you. C'mere." He grabbed Clinton's sweatshirt and tried to pull him down, to bring their heads together, almost as if he wanted them to kiss.

Clinton caught Neal's wrists and evaded him easily. "Whoa, whoa."

Neal's eyes were huge and glassy, his breathing shallow, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the chill of the night. His clothes were in unprecedented disarray, and his arms had no strength to them.

Clinton frowned and sighed. "You'd better come inside." He hauled him to his feet and staggered when Neal failed to support his own weight at all, nearly landing them both in a heap on the steps. But Clinton recovered in time and half carried, half dragged Neal inside.

"You're strong too," murmured Neal. "That a job prerequisite?"

"You're not making any sense, Caffrey," said Clinton, kicking his front door shut behind them and dumping Neal on the couch. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here," said Neal. He stopped and blinked at the cushions in confusion. "Clinton?" He'd fallen sideways on the couch, facing its back and twisted at an awkward angle, with one arm hanging loosely to the floor. He seemed to have lost most of his muscle control, but he didn't smell of alcohol.

Drugs? Clinton got a sinking feeling and reached for his phone. "I'm calling Peter."

"No," said Neal quickly. He rolled onto his back and flailed ineffectually at the couch cushions before landing on the floor, knocking the coffee table askew and sending a deck of playing cards and a couple of magazines spilling onto his legs. "No, please? Don't. He'll just—won't understand, yell at me. And you." Neal shook his head and hummed under his breath, then blinked his eyes open and fixed his gaze on Clinton. "Have to tell you first."

Clinton shook his head and dialed.

"No, no, no, no, no," said Neal, alarmed enough that he managed to be relatively coherent. "Don't tell Peter. It was Moz."

Clinton heard the worry in his voice and noted his complete lack of guile. He sighed, disconnected the call and planted himself on the edge of the coffee table so he could loom over Neal. "Explain. What did the little guy do to you?"

Neal seemed briefly distracted by Clinton's knees, but he blinked hard and focused on his face. "Amobarbital," he enunciated carefully.

"Truth serum?" said Clinton, raising his eyebrows. That seemed excessive, even for Mozzie. "He couldn't just ask you what he wanted to know?"

"No, we—" Neal shook his head. "Keeping it off the record, remember? Secret."

He looked like he was about to say more, but Clinton's phone rang. Clinton checked the display before he answered. "Peter."

"Jones, everything okay? I missed your call." Peter sounded tired. In the background, Elizabeth Burke said something about taking the dog out.

"Yeah." Clinton watched as Neal grabbed the arm of the couch and levered himself upright with obvious effort. His breathing was shallow. "Caffrey's here, a bit under the weather, but it's fine. I can handle it. Call you back if there's a problem."

"Okay," said Peter. "You do that."

Clinton put the weird inflection in Peter's reply down to the late hour and hung up. He leveled his gaze at Neal, but they were too close now that Neal was sitting up, and the eye contact made Clinton self-conscious. He scraped the coffee table back a few inches and sat down again.

Neal nudged him in the shin with his knee. "Moz did it, said the only way to know for sure was—" He shrugged one thin shoulder, making his collarbone shift under his skin.

Clinton looked away, up to Neal's face. "So you and Mozzie have some trust issues. I'm shocked. Why did he bring you here?"

"He's mad at you," said Neal. "Mozzie is. Mad at you. I mean, me too, but—"

"At me?" Clinton rubbed his eyes, feeling a headache coming on. He hadn't seen Mozzie in weeks, not since the Lawrence case. "What did I do?"

Neal blinked up at him. "You're a bad influence, buddy," he said, sounding loopy but lucid. "Really bad news."

Clinton barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Out of all the shady people in Neal's life, Neal was saying that to _him_? So much for truth serum, if this was the kind of information Mozzie had gotten out of him. "Caffrey, what the hell are you talking about?"

"I had a plan," said Neal, wistfully. "First chance I got, I was going to be out of here. Gone, done, vamoose."

Clinton's pulse skipped an unexpected beat. He should've seen that coming. "And now?"

"Would you come with me?" Neal stared at him for a long, weirdly intense moment, then dropped his head. "No. So now, no." He rubbed the back of his neck and added, without looking up, "If I ran, would you miss me?"

"What do you think?" said Clinton, confused. Something was going on here, something that made no sense.

And then Neal dug his hand into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a black cube, about three inches across. He shook his head, as if to clear his vision, and pressed a silver button on the cube. It started to hum, a vibration that buzzed at the base of Clinton's skull, seemed to seep into his scalp and send shivers directly into his brain.

"What is that? Turn it off," said Clinton, leaning forward to grab it out of Neal's hand. But the moment his fingers touched it, Neal did something else, maybe pressed another button, something, and the last week exploded into Clinton's mind, bright and overwhelming, bursting into the vague fuzzy space that had been there a moment ago and filling it to the brim. A whole week, and _what_ a week. Clinton tried to grab his head as days and days of memories and sensations hit him at once, a solid wall of turbulent feelings, thoughts and reactions and oh man, of _Neal_. Clinton gasped, realized he was pressing the cube to his forehead and dropped it before it fucked with him even more. He sprang to his feet and stepped away, trying to put some distance between himself and all this confusion. All these feelings. "What the hell was that?"

Neal slumped back against the couch, drugged but conscious. He fixed Clinton with an earnest stare, a furrow between his eyebrows, sweat patches on his shirt. He looked about eighteen years old, helpless and desperate, and Clinton could hardly believe that he'd—they'd—

Neal licked his lips and repeated himself, and this time the words actually meant something. They had context. They made sense.

"Clinton," said Neal. "If I ran, would you miss me?"

   


## Chapter 1 – Sunday, one week earlier

"Agent Clinton Montgomery Jones," said Mozzie mournfully, pouring himself another glass of wine.

Neal looked up from the legal pad where he'd been doodling. "What about him?"

"If it weren't for him, we'd be in a tropical island paradise by now, surrounded by our treasure. We could have a Picasso and a Dali on one wall and a Vermeer on another." Mozzie sank onto the couch and looked around Neal's apartment with unwarranted distaste.

Neal picked up his own glass and swallowed his resentment with his wine. He'd been dragging Mozzie into all kinds of risky situations for the FBI for the last two years; there was no denying he owed him. And Mozzie could have disappeared with the U-boat treasure if he'd wanted to. He was doing Neal a favor by including him. Still, the implied criticism stung. "I couldn't exactly let Lawrence kill Jones."

A faint shadow of skepticism passed over Mozzie's face, making his eyebrows twitch.

"I couldn't, Moz!" Neal liked Jones, but even if he hadn't, he couldn't have let Lawrence murder him. That wasn't who he was.

Mozzie leaned back and closed his eyes. "Soon we'll be far away from here, well outside the FBI's jurisdiction, and you won't have to make those kinds of choices anymore."

Neal looked down at his doodles. They were a series of cartoonish sketches: Neal spinning the world on one fingertip as if it were a basketball; Lolana in a tracking anklet; Mozzie as Wile E. Coyote with a long fuse and an ACME style detonator, blowing up a warehouse. Neal would have to burn that last one.

It had been down to luck that no one had been hurt in the warehouse fire. Peter, Diana or Jones—or one of the other agents Neal didn't know so well. Adler's men. Someone with a family and friends. He wondered if Mozzie had taken that into account when he set the explosives, if billions of dollars in treasure had overridden his native caution.

Neal himself would have been caught in the destruction if Adler hadn't accosted him. As it was, all of Neal's paintings were ash and memory. But Moz had been right: what was a Neal Caffrey compared with a Van Dyke or a Turner?

"No rest for the wicked." Mozzie swallowed the last of his wine and stood up with a sigh. He put on his magnifying-glass headset, went to the corner and hoisted a wooden crate from the floor to the table.

The hairs on the back of Neal's neck prickled. "What is that?"

"It's from the sub," said Mozzie, prying the lid off with a claw hammer.

"And you brought it here?" Neal stared at him disbelievingly. First the warehouse explosion with only the partial destruction of Neal's paintings and now this? Was Mozzie trying to get him caught? "Are you out of your mind?"

"It's not art; it's experimental technology." Mozzie carefully removed a series of strange-looking electrical devices from the crate. "There's no insignia. It's not traceable." He looked up and saw Neal's expression. "Would you relax? If anyone should happen to see them, which they won't, we can say they're leftover components from the fractal antenna."

"Components. Right." Neal went over and surveyed the devices on the table. It looked like a mad scientist's yard sale. There were: a headpiece covered in wires like something straight out of a 1950s B-movie; a device that looked like a miniature old-fashioned microwave oven; a black cube, about three inches across, which Neal found inexplicably sinister; a flat panel engraved with the outline of a hand; a metal box with a fractal antenna printed on its lid; some nondescript miscellaneous machines; and a pile of loose wires, crystals and ancient rusted batteries.

Neal picked a bronze contraption out of the clutter, trying to get over his discomfort at having the things in his apartment. Nazi things. The machine in his hands was wide and flat, about the size of a VCR, and it weighed eight or nine pounds. It was cool, the metal dull with age, and it had two switches and a dial on its front plate, and a deep groove along its top. "What does it do?"

"I don't know. As well as the other, monstrous, better known scientific research conducted during World War II, there was a lot of investigation into metaphysics. It could be anything." Mozzie gestured elaborately with a pair of needle-nose pliers. "It could be an alchemy engine, for turning lead into gold."

"It could be a bomb or a torture device," said Neal, putting it down and wiping his hands on his pants. "Tell me again why you had to bring it here?"

"It's not a bomb," said Mozzie. "Look." He pointed to a brass plaque on the lid of the crate. Neal's German was rusty, but even he could translate **Metaphysische Maschine – Prototypen**. "And I needed better light than the warehouse affords. I thought you'd be interested." He sounded aggrieved, as if Neal should be pleased to have obscure and quite possibly evil apparatus in his living space.

"Fine," said Neal, reaching for a screwdriver. This wasn't the time to get into an argument. God only knew what Moz would do if Neal sent him away with all these gadgets. "Let's figure these out."

The sooner they knew what the devices did, the sooner Mozzie could either destroy them or sell them on the black market, and get them out of here. The sooner they could wash their hands of this whole situation and get back to normal—a new normal where they were unimaginably wealthy and retired and New York was no longer home.

The wealthy part sounded good, anyway.

Neal opened the casing of the bronze machine and peered inside, but there were no booby traps or miniature Enigma machines, just an orderly array of wires, resistors, crystals, capacitors and switches. It didn't have an obvious power source or any external cabling, but it was only a few seconds' work to hook the device up to the car battery Moz had put in the middle of the table and set the wires humming. Ever since he'd learned the basic principles of electric circuits as a kid, Neal had known how to hotwire pretty much anything with a current.

Once he had it running, he settled the casing back into place and looked at it. Two unmarked switches and a dial—that wasn't a lot to go on. But he'd never been one for caution, and he could always pull the line free from the battery if he needed to. He flipped first the left switch and then, when nothing happened, the switch on the right. The machine's hum intensified, but nothing else happened.

Neal studied it, wondering what the groove along the top was for. He took another look at the junk on the table and, on impulse, he grabbed the panel with the handprint—which turned out to have a mirror image handprint on its other side—and slotted it into the groove. The panel clicked perfectly into place and the whole machine shuddered. Neal gripped the upright panel, his fingers overlapping the hand outlines, and held the machine steady to stop it from jittering off the table like it clearly wanted to.

"Wait!" Mozzie started. He sounded alarmed, but the room abruptly faded before Neal could hear the rest of his objection. Faded like invisible ink. Neal blinked and would have rubbed his eyes, but he had something in his hands and it wasn't a World War II metaphysical gadget. It was soft and gloopy. He looked down and saw brown hands spreading sticky rice across a sheet of nori. Shirtsleeves rolled up. Strong brown forearms and hands with blunt fingers and pink cuticles. He could feel their movements as if they were his own. He waved his thumb; the thumb in front of him wiggled, knocking a clump of rice onto the formica counter.

"It's going to be so gay!" said a voice nearby, thick with teenage woe. Neal clamped down on the confusion and his flight response and looked around as casually as he could.

He was in a kitchen, clean but nothing fancy. A plate of fresh salmon, a bowl of lettuce and a jar of mayonnaise were on the counter in front of him. There were old children's paintings stuck to the fridge, a few bills next to the fruit bowl, couple of pots soaking in the sink. Television sounds came from the next room. Where was he? None of it was familiar. The name on the top bill was S. Tanner.

A kid, about thirteen, with braces on her teeth, red-framed glasses and an orange T-shirt that said "Beam me up" was scowling at him expectantly. She was black too. She'd been cutting avocado into strips, but now her knife was still as she waited for his response.

Neal gathered his wits. "What's gay?"

"I told you," she said. "Jessica." She shoved the avocado along the bench toward him. He reached out to stop it falling onto the floor, and his wrist—not really _his_ wrist—caught his eye: analogue watch, round face, black leather strap. It was a clue, but before he could investigate further, the watch, the kid, the kitchen were all dissolving, and the next second he was back in his own place, in his own skin, his heart pounding.

Mozzie was glaring at him. "Are you out of your mind?"

"What happened?" Neal guessed he'd been gone less than ten seconds, but it had been long enough. "Moz?"

"You looked like you were going to have a heart attack so I disconnected the battery is what happened," said Mozzie, pointing to the severed cords. "Total freak-out."

"Did I say anything?" Neal rubbed his face, then looked at his hands—his own hands—just to be sure.

"You stared at me like I had three heads and said, 'Mozzie? What the hell's happening? Hey, why do I sound like—?'" Mozzie frowned. "You don't remember? Neal, we can't just turn on these machines and see what happens. That isn't a car or a security system you're messing with. There's no manual. We don't even know what it's designed to do. I know it goes against your improvisational inclinations, but we need to test these devices under controlled conditions. We need a plan."

"Right. You're right." Neal stood up and went to the fridge for wine but veered off toward the scotch bottle at the last minute. He'd been somewhere—somewhere real and detailed, somewhere with smells and sounds and textures. He'd been in someone else's body, someone else's life. _Whose?_

His phone buzzed, and he checked the display: it was Jones. Wheels turned and tumblers fell into place. That had been Jones' watch on his wrist, that was why it'd been familiar. Neal had been in Jones' body. _Why Jones?_

Mozzie was watching, so Neal answered as nonchalantly as he could. "Jones. What's up?"

"You tell me, Caffrey. What just happened?" Jones sounded freaked, but still solid, reliable and altogether Jones-like, as if he were hoping for a simple explanation that would let him slot the experience into a safe pigeonhole and forget about it.

Not that Neal could tell him anything. Even if the device that started this hadn't had dubious origins, Mozzie's earlier lamentations meant it was probably best to hide Jones' role from him. Neal decided to keep it bland. "What do you mean?"

"One second I'm in Philadelphia, and the next I'm at your place. The little guy was there, and—what was that machine?" Jones was segueing from freaked to quietly pissed. "And then I'm back again. What did you do? Don't make me call Peter about this."

"Philadelphia?" Neal's stomach swooped uncomfortably. That was a hell of a long way to have traveled in the blink of an eye. "Sorry, afraid I can't help you with that. Philadelphia's a hundred miles outside my radius."

"Yeah, I know." Jones was quiet for a moment. "Okay, listen, we'll talk about this when I get back, and you can explain and apologize. For now, just, whatever you did, don't do it again."

He said it in the exact tone of voice Peter would have used, the one that always made Neal want to break into a highly secure area and steal something priceless and irreplaceable. "Why is it when things go wrong, everyone assumes I'm responsible?"

"Maybe because we know you," said Jones.

Neal grinned, pique forgotten. "Well, nice as it is that you guys think I have magical powers, I'm going to have to disappoint you this time."

Jones snorted. "Like I said, we'll talk tomorrow."

Neal hung up and met Mozzie's enquiring gaze. "Something valuable went missing from a private residence in Philadelphia. Jones was just checking I didn't do it."

"Did you?" Mozzie asked, palpably suspicious.

Neal kept his posture relaxed and open. "Think, Moz. This is hardly the time to take that kind of risk and call attention to ourselves, and you of all people would know if I were masterminding some kind of scam. I wouldn't cut you out, I promise."

"Okay. Well, one thing's clear," said Mozzie, turning back to the contraptions on the table. "We need to get you out of the FBI's clutches ASAP before they do manage to pin something on you and make you a scapegoat for their government conspiracy of—" He held up his hands long enough to make air quotes. "—justice."

Neal drank a mouthful of scotch and looked at the device, now safely dormant, that had catapulted him across state lines and into his colleague's body. "We'll find a way."

   
*

   
Neal lay awake that night staring at the skylight. He was tired and slightly drunk but he couldn't sleep. Questions were circling his brain like the garishly painted horses on a merry-go-round: had it really happened? It must have, if Jones had experienced it too, had been sure enough to call Neal and demand an explanation. But how, and could it happen again? Had the device been specifically built to transfer consciousnesses between bodies, and if so why? Most importantly, out of all the people Neal knew, why Clinton Jones? Was there something connecting them, some hitherto unnoticed bond or similarity? Was it Fate?

Jones was a nice guy, reliable, smart, observant. He was easygoing, mostly kept himself to himself. On Friday, in the surveillance van when they were starting the sting at the art gallery, he'd slapped Neal on the shoulder and said, "Caffrey, you're up." That was two days ago. Was that the last time Neal had touched someone? Was that _why Jones_?

Even if it wasn't, it was pretty sad to realize that Neal had gone nearly forty-eight hours without even casual bodily contact with another human being. Maybe he should get a dog. Not that Mozzie would countenance that when they were supposed to be leaving town any day now.

Neal turned his thoughts back to the problem. It made no sense: if he was going to swap places with anyone in the FBI, it should have been Peter. Peter was his boss, his mentor. Peter was responsible for him, as symbolized by the hunk of plastic on Neal's ankle. But Neal hadn't found himself at the Burkes'. Instead he'd popped up in the middle of Jones' sushi-making, kid-watching, Philadelphia-based domesticity.

What was Jones doing in Philly in the first place? And who was that kid?

No, forget that. Focus. Maybe the machine was governed by chance, ordering Neal's acquaintances as if they were songs shuffled by iTunes. Maybe it had been a fluke that he'd swapped with Jones. Maybe if Neal tried it again, he'd end up in someone else. One data point wasn't enough to form a theory.

It was half-past midnight. Mozzie was snoring on the couch, and the rest of the house was quiet. Most people, respectable and disreputable alike, were asleep. Neal slipped out of bed, gathered sweatpants and a T-shirt, the machine and Mozzie's bag of supplementary tools and electrical equipment as quietly as he could and decamped to the privacy of Byron's walk-in closet. He got dressed, and then a few minutes' rummaging through Mozzie's supplies and he'd reconnected the device to the battery, now with a timer in the circuit: once Neal flicked the switch, the machine would have power for exactly two seconds before it cut out. That should be long enough for Neal to establish where he was—at least that he wasn't in Jones—without waking the other person, who, if Neal were lucky, would dismiss the experience as a dream, if they woke at all. He was feeling lucky.

Neal rested his finger on the switch and bit his lip. He hadn't been nervous the first time he'd activated the device, but now, with the knowledge that in a split second he'd be elsewhere, anywhere, leaving his own body defenseless—it was unsettling. Still, it was the only way to figure out what was going on. He turned off the light to lessen the chance of waking the other person, closed his eyes, gripped the thin edge of the upright panel and hit the switch.

Instantly, he was standing naked, hot water hitting his shoulders and cascading down his back. He had steam in his nostrils, he was rubbing a bar of soap over his chest, and when he raised his hand, it was Jones' hand. _Déjà vu._

Just as suddenly, all those sensations were gone and he was in the dark, in his own body, gasping. A part of his mind, still reeling, insisted his skin should be tingling from the shower, but his body was how he'd left it plus a jolt of adrenaline. He shivered, though the room was warm.

Oh hell. It had been Jones again, and Jones had been awake, clear-headed enough to know it wasn't a dream. He was going to be mad.

Neal turned on the light, removed the panel from the machine and hid it in a secret compartment under a removable floorboard. He opened the casing and took one of the crystals out of the device's inner workings, just to be on the safe side, and he was about to hide that too when his phone rang.

He didn't need to check the display. "Oops," he said, answering. "Sorry."

"Caffrey, what the hell?" Jones sounded more confused than mad. "How did you do that? _Why_ did you do that?"

"I'm sorry," repeated Neal sincerely. "I've decommissioned the machine. It won't happen again."

"I don't understand how it happened at all," said Jones. "Or why you'd think it's okay to commandeer my body like that, without even asking. We need to talk. Now. You're at home, right? Stay there, I'm coming over."

"No," said Neal quickly. "No, you'll wake June. I'll come to your place. I'll get a cab. It's the least I can do."

"Fine," said Jones. "I'll make coffee. And if you're not here in half an hour, I'm calling Peter and telling him everything. You know how he gets when he's woken in the middle of the night."

"I'll be there." Neal hung up and grabbed a sweater from the closet. There were advantages to living in a former illegal gambling den, the foremost of which was its many secret exits. Tonight, it would definitely be best if he left without Mozzie noticing.

   
*

   
Jones answered the door in jeans, a T-shirt and a severe expression. "Caffrey." He motioned Neal inside.

For a moment, Neal just stared at him, remembering being inside his body, the feel of soap and water on skin. Then he mentally shook himself and brushed past, pushing aside awareness. Now was no time to be getting distracted. Jones was justifiably pissed. Neal had some explaining to do.

Jones poured the coffee—not great, but passable—and they sat side by side at the breakfast bar. "Look, I don't know what you're playing at, but it has to stop. You pushed me out of my body and invaded my privacy at my sister's house, and now you've invaded my shower."

"It was an accident. And the second time was just for a second," said Neal. "I didn't mean to. I thought you'd be asleep."

Jones' jaw clenched. "You think that makes it better? You tried to take over my sleeping body!" He propped his elbow on the breakfast bar and leaned forward, gauging Neal's reaction. "Why me?"

"I don't know," said Neal, honestly. "That's why I was trying it again, to see if it would be someone else this time."

"But it wasn't." Jones frowned and held up his hand. "Wait, you mean you didn't point that thing at me? It was just random?"

"Or something." Neal drank a mouthful of coffee. "There's just a dial and two switches. I don't think you can aim it at a specific person, exactly."

Jones shook his head. "Jesus, Caffrey! First music boxes, now body-swapping machines. You're a walking trouble magnet."

"I didn't see any magnets, but I'll keep an eye out," said Neal, lightly. "But no, I don't know why it chose you. Maybe it decided we're soul mates." He meant it as a joke but it landed awkwardly, too close to coming out for comfort.

Jones rolled his eyes and said, "Start at the beginning." His voice had softened a little. The fog of blame was starting to lift.

Jones had one hand wrapped around his coffee mug, the other resting on his thigh, and the blunt fingers with their short, clipped nails evoked the echo of sensations—sticky rice, slippery soap. Neal suppressed a shiver and dragged his gaze away, pressing his own fingertips to the hot smooth surface of his mug. "Mozzie came into possession of some experimental technology."

"Legally?" asked Jones.

Neal grimaced. "Can we call it a gray area?"

"Where did he get it?"

"He liberated the machines from a private collection," said Neal, thinking of Adler. "The previous owner is dead and has no heirs. Anyway, we were trying to figure out what the machines do, and when I wired that particular machine to a battery and turned it on this evening, I—well, you know."

"We traded places," said Jones. "And I told you not to do it again, and then you did."

Neal ducked his head, preferring to keep his admissions of guilt non-verbal. He drank from his coffee to ward off fatigue. "Don't tell Mozzie, okay? If he found out I'd switched places with you, he'd take it as a sign that I'm one hundred percent rehabilitated, and that'd piss him off."

"Why should I care?" said Jones.

Neal blinked. Even after all these years, he kept forgetting that everyone underestimated Mozzie. They saw him as a flake, a freak or a fixer. They didn't know his dark side, that streak of ruthlessness that had let him survive first Detroit then the twin battlefields of Chicago and New York.

If Jones had found out the real origins of the machines during his brief sojourn in Neal's body—or if he'd seen the treasure webcam, or if Mozzie had mentioned the art—that would have been a disaster beyond the telling of it. Neal needed to keep that secret safe, both to protect himself and Mozzie from the FBI and to protect Jones from Mozzie. "It's just better if he doesn't know," he told Jones now. "Please."

"Whatever," said Jones. "So, to recap, you only used this machine twice."

"Yeah," said Neal.

"And you switched places with me both times."

Neal nodded. "It's possible that—" He bit his lip.

"What?" Jones nudged him with his knee. "Spill it, Caffrey."

"Just—you're the last person I touched." Neal tried not to feel completely pathetic, but it was hard when Jones was looking at him with a mix of confusion and pity. "On Friday, I mean, in the van."

Jones let that pass and just said matter-of-factly, "How would a machine know that?"

Neal shrugged and turned to face the breakfast bar. "I got nothing."

He closed his eyes, and there was a flicker, like lightning or static. For a fraction of a second, he wasn't himself, wasn't _in_ himself. It was becoming a familiar feeling, the sensation of broader shoulders, strength, this time accompanied by the cool metal rung of the stool against his bare feet. He heard a distant exclamation. Then the feeling was gone, his heart was thumping and Jones was looking at him wide-eyed.

"What the hell was that?" Jones got to his feet and started pacing. "You're here. You said you dismantled the machine."

"I did," said Neal, with as much confidence as he could muster. "I really did. That must have been an aftershock. Maybe it was the last of the charge draining from the machine's circuits." He'd disconnected the battery; it couldn't be anything else.

"The little guy?" Jones' arms were tightly folded and he was barely looking at Neal. Apparently being Neal Caffrey was an unsettling experience. Neal tried not to take that personally.

"He was asleep when I left," said Neal, "and I hid—you know the upright panel with the outlines of hands on it? I hid that." He'd removed one of the crystals too, hidden that—no, Jones' phone call had interrupted him before he could find a separate hiding place for it. He checked his pockets and found the crystal, hard and warm, buzzing slightly. It could be acting as a terminal. What if it didn't need to be inside the machine to work? Worse, what if Mozzie had woken up and gotten curious? "Maybe I should get home and check on him."

"Maybe you should," said Jones grimly. "I'll see you at work tomorrow. In the meantime, you make damned sure that machine really is disabled, and I'll hope that that really was the last of it. I don't like this."

"I'm sure it is." Neal stood up and hesitated. "Listen, Jones, I don't know how I dragged you into this mess, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Jones took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He looked at Neal and seemed to actually see him this time. "Okay. It's a freak accident or chaos theory or something. I don't really care, so long as you're not using me for some elaborate high-tech scam and so long as we can put a stop to it."

Neal nodded. "Got it." He headed for the door.

   
*

   
In the cab on the way home, it occurred to Neal that if he set it up right—left the machine in a secure warehouse with an uninterrupted power supply—he could become Clinton Jones now, trusted, respected, quietly sexy, with a niece in Philadelphia and no criminal record or tracking anklet. He could leave the FBI _and_ Mozzie behind and start afresh on his own, and who could stop him?

He wouldn't, of course. It would be throwing away every connection he'd spent the last two years building, and it wouldn't be fair to Jones. But his devious, criminal self tingled with the knowledge that he _could_ , and his better self glowed with virtue at refusing to take advantage of the opportunity.

   
*

   
It was past two a.m. by the time he got home. Mozzie was still asleep on the couch and the machine was still in Byron's closet, exactly as Neal had left it. Neal removed the casing. A small red light flickered in the middle of one of the circuits. Neal didn't know what that meant, but it was slowing down, dying. There must have been residual charge from earlier, like he'd theorized, or else there was a fault in the timer. God only knew what would happen if he tried flicking switches at this point. He and Jones hadn't experienced another spontaneous swap, so Neal disconnected the battery, removed the timer, cut a couple of critical wires to be extra safe and fell exhaustedly into bed.

He was asleep in seconds.

He dreamed of hands smoothing over his chest—they were his hands and not his, and he couldn't tell if the chest was his own or Jones', just that it was naked. He was lying on his back on a cloud or a white feather bed, maybe in Rome or Naples. He looked up to the left, to a window framing dizzying blue sky, and when he turned his head, there was his own face, eyes sky blue, lips parted, and without thinking, he pulled his body down beside him, chest to chest, and kissed his own mouth—hot and sweet. The world swung and tilted, and he was back in his body, behind his face. He was kissing Jones. Really kissing him. Turned on.

He pulled back. "This is a dream, right?"

"I think so," said Jones. "I just don't know if it's yours or mine."

"Does it matter?" Neal touched his jaw. "If it's a dream, there's no rules, no limits."

Jones breathed a laugh. "A few limits might do you a world of good, Caffrey." But he pushed Neal back against the mattress and pinned him there, kissing him again, sliding his tongue into Neal's mouth. He tasted of coffee.

Neal lost track of himself, of the limits of his body. He _was_ the feather-bed cloud, cradling himself and Jones; he was the window frame; he was a star looking down from light-years away. He was himself, kissing Jones, trailing his hand down Jones' side to his hip and lazily seeking something to rub against. He wasn't Jones though, not this time, not anymore.

"Have you dreamed about me before?" he asked.

"You've been in my head today," Jones reminded him, "in more ways than one. Probably left some of your industrial-strength narcissism lying around in here." He gripped Neal by the hips and tugged him close, and Neal swallowed a groan. "You want to make out with yourself, and got me to stand in for you—again."

The bed fell away, the stars started to pulse. "It's not me I want to make out with," he told Jones, but he was already waking up, the gray light of morning dragging him away from the dream, leaving him with a lingering sense of unfinished business.

That had been strange. And intense. In retrospect, he hoped like hell it had just been a dream.

   


## Chapter 2 – Monday

Neal needn't have worried. When he saw Jones at the office the next day, Jones didn't scowl, yell or blush, and he didn't say a word about any illicit nocturnal sexcapades. "Did you get rid of the machine?" was all he asked.

"Absolutely positively," said Neal, giving an inward sigh of relief. It must have been a regular dream. No matter how trustworthy and honorable Jones was, there were certain truths and inclinations that Neal preferred to keep to himself. Apparently those truths now including the hitherto unremarked fact that Jones was hot.

It was a fact that distracted Neal through the briefing that morning, until Peter told him if he didn't pay attention, he could spend the rest of the day working the latest Medicare scam.

"I'm paying attention," said Neal, sitting up straight and forcing his eyes to the front of the room. "Auditing scam. Got it. They go in as auditors, review the client books and either embezzle money from the company accounts or sell inside information to competitors."

"It's spreading," said Diana. "There are reports from all over the Eastern Seaboard."

"Road trip?" said Neal, perking up. Not that he had a deep-seated desire to drive down the coast, but any change of scene was welcome.

But Peter shook his head. "Surveillance. They've been very careful. They target mid-range companies that either can't afford top-of-the-line security or don't see a need for it, so there's no security footage of them. But we do have a name: Marcia Herbertson. We've had word that she has an office in West Village, and she'll be taking a delivery there sometime today. Jones, you're with me and Neal in the van. Diana, I want you to get in touch with the case agents for the other incidents, get all the information you can."

"On it," said Diana. She gathered her papers and stood up.

"The van," said Neal, suppressing a sigh. It wasn't enticing, but compared to medical insurance hell, it was definitely the lesser of two evils, and if Neal left Peter and Jones alone together for too long, Jones might decide to tell Peter about the swaps. Given Peter's current propensity to lay blame at Neal's door, that could only be a bad thing. "I'll get the Sudoku book."

"No Sudoku," said Peter, as Neal left the room. His voice carried as far as the bottom of the steps. "Neal? Neal! This isn't a picnic: it's surveillance."

   
*

   
Surveillance was uneventful, to put it mildly, and Peter had confiscated Neal's puzzle book, ignoring Neal's plaintive, "Do you want me to stay awake or not?"

Peter and Jones both seemed to have the capacity to stare at nothing happening for an infinite length of time without getting twitchy. Maybe they'd learned how at Quantico. Neal was bored and restless within half an hour. He could have done it if he'd been planning a heist, but catching people for an auditing scam lacked poetry and therefore interest. It didn't help that Peter was acting friendly on the surface but still watching him carefully, suspicious about the sub, and it _really_ didn't help that Neal was inconveniently aware of Jones, who kept his eyes trained on the monitor, silent while Neal and Peter bickered. Given Neal couldn't speak freely to either of them, it was a relief when Peter sent him on a coffee run.

He dawdled up Hudson, taking his time. It was a cool, still day and he was glad of his coat though it wasn't actually raining. The trees had shed most of their leaves, and a few smokers were huddling in doorways. There was a line at the coffee shop.

Neal's phone rang. It was Mozzie, so Neal abandoned his place in line and took the call outside. "What's up?"

"I can't find the device you were working on yesterday," said Mozzie. "You know, the one that made your eyes bug out. I was going to run some diagnostics on it."

"Forget it, Moz," said Neal. "Forget the machines. We need to focus on our flight plan." He looked around to make sure no one was listening. "Have you lined up a buyer for the painting yet?"

"I have a meeting tomorrow morning," said Mozzie, but he wasn't so easily distracted. "Oh, here it is, in your closet-slash-speakeasy-observation-room. Neal, what aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing. What are you doing in my closet?" Neal checked his pocket for the crystal, relaxing when he felt its smooth surfaces. He'd cut the main wires, but even if Mozzie reconnected them and powered up the machine, it shouldn't work without the crystal. The flicker last night had to have been an aberration, surely.

"It's here, but—" Mozzie hummed thoughtfully. "—some of the wires are cut and there's a gap where—Aha! It looks like it's missing a quartz crystal. Don't worry, there were spares in the crate. Now, where did I put those?"

"Don't," said Neal, alarmed. "Don't do anything with it. Don't touch it."

"You've been using it for something. What are you up to?" Mozzie sounded suspicious. "Why did you hide it from me?"

"It's not important," Neal told him. "Calm down and step away from the machine, Moz. It doesn't turn lead into gold, and it gives off one hell of an electric shock. Trust me on this."

"Trust is for people with no imagination," said Mozzie darkly.

Before Neal could reply, he was back in the van, back in Jones' body, and the tedium of the afternoon's stakeout had been replaced with shouts and bustling and Peter yelling, "Shot fired! Shot fired! Go, go, go!"

"Go where?" muttered Neal under his breath, but there was no time to get his bearings. Peter was jumping out of the van. Neal couldn't let him go without backup, so he followed on his heels, hurrying across the road despite the hasty braking of cars and a taxi driver's yelled insults as she swerved and nearly crashed into a florist's van that was double-parked. Neal left all that behind and sprinted after Peter into the quiet of the office block they'd been watching.

The day had seemed chilly when he'd been on a coffee run, but now, with adrenalin pumping through his system, Neal couldn't feel it. He couldn't feel anything. He was vaguely aware he was wearing thicker-soled shoes and, oh God, a shoulder holster. He was carrying a gun. He grabbed it and copied Peter's grip, keeping the safety on. His stomach churned; he ignored it. He was Agent Clinton Jones, and armed takedowns were all in a day's work.

He really should tell Peter what was going on. He wished he could—Peter wouldn't let Neal run around with a loaded gun, no matter whose body he was in—but any explanation would inevitably lead to awkward questions and there was no time. He was on his own.

They reached Herbertson's office on the second floor and paused to get their bearings before barging in. Through a closed wooden door, a man's voice shouted, "Not until you give me everything you've got on Mercer Associates."

An equally determined woman replied, but Neal couldn't make out what she said.

Peter glanced at Neal, nodded, and put his hand on the doorknob.

 _Crack!_ Another gunshot and the smash of glass, so close that Neal ducked instinctively. Then Peter was bursting through the door yelling "FBI!" and Neal had no choice but to follow.

Marcia Herbertson was in her late fifties. She had steel-gray hair and a tweed suit, and she looked like Charlton Heston in drag. She was sitting, icily composed, behind a beautiful mahogany desk, her attention fixed on a tall man with lanky red hair. As far as Neal could see, he was unarmed.

Behind Herbertson, at her shoulder, stood a younger woman with a Glock semi-automatic. She looked furious and wild-eyed, probably high on adrenaline from making the first two shots. A shattered antique mirror hung askew on the wall beside the red-haired man.

"Agent Peter Burke, FBI," said Peter to the younger woman. "Lower your weapon now."

The man glanced around. "Oh, thank God."

Herbertson pushed her chair back and stood up, scowling. "Lisa, ignore him. Gentlemen, I have the situation well under control. Those were merely warning shots. No one is hurt, and Mr. Wallace was just about to depart. The last thing I need is you stomping all over my office. Please leave at once."

"That's not going to happen," said Peter. "Lisa, I need you to put down your gun."

"Yeah, and give me the data you stole from Mercer Associates too," said Wallace. "And then you can rot in prison."

The tension in the room thickened, and Lisa's eyes flicked from Peter to Neal to Wallace and back again. Neal couldn't help picturing carnage, bodies bleeding out while Herbertson and Lisa made a break for it. He had to do something.

He edged right to draw Lisa's focus and raised a hand to placate her. "You should listen to him."

"Don't tell me what I should do. Ms. Herbertson told you to get out of here, so go!" she yelled. Her gaze swung to Neal and the barrel of her gun followed. "All of you. We're not giving you anything."

Neal put both hands back on his handgrip, holding it steady. His palms were starting to sweat. Being caught in crosshairs was pretty much a weekly occurrence for Neal. He hated it, but he'd developed a healthy belief in his ability to talk people down—or at least stall them until the cavalry arrived. But this time, Neal was the cavalry and he was pointing a gun at an angry, unpredictable armed suspect. That was like wearing a bull's-eye. With both of them tense and hyper-alert, the only question was who would shoot first.

Neal flicked off the safety. If it was a matter of protecting Peter or even Herbertson or Wallace, he'd do it. For himself—this wasn't his body and he owed it to Jones to keep it safe, but even so, he didn't think he could bring himself to take out Lisa if there was the slightest alternative.

"Lower your weapon," Peter told Lisa again. "We need to talk to Ms. Herbertson."

"Talk," scoffed Lisa. "Yeah. That's why you burst in here, guns blazing."

"You're the only one who's blazing anything," said Neal, trying to keep her aim off Peter. He wanted to lower his gun as a gesture of good faith, to hook her in, but given how mad she was, there was an even chance she'd just take the shot. "Listen, you don't want to do this. You'd never get away with it, and do you know what kind of time you'd do for shooting a Fed? Give up now and maybe we can do you a—"

"Jones," said Peter in his warning voice.

"No deals," said Lisa. "I told you: get lost!"

Herbertson was slinking unobtrusively towards the far door—as much as anyone could slink in tweed—and the movement must have registered in the corner of Lisa's eye, because she snapped, "Wait!" and swung sideways, losing concentration.

Neal saw her knuckles go white and he tensed in anticipation, unable to make himself pull the trigger—even if she did fire, the chances of her hitting anyone were remote—but then Wallace took the opportunity to play the hero and moved to grab the gun out of Lisa's hand. Neal surged forward to stop him, Lisa turned back, there was a crack and Neal flinched at the sudden burning sensation in his arm. He clutched his biceps. His sleeve was wet, blood seeping between his fingers.

"You shot me!" he said, outraged. Jones wasn't going to be happy.

Lisa took a step back, the fury in her eyes shading into shame. "I didn't mean to! You startled me. I told you to leave!"

A second later, Peter had her gun. "You okay, Jones?" he asked as he cuffed Lisa and then Herbertson.

"Yeah." Neal tried to tough it out, like Jones would have. "It's just a scratch."

"Your agent is bleeding on my rug," Herbertson complained to Peter.

Peter stopped calling for a paramedic long enough to scowl at her. "Because your assistant shot him."

Neal glanced down at the rug. It was a Savonnerie in good condition, beautiful and worth thousands, and Herbertson was right: he was bleeding on it, the drips making a small Rorschach blot at his feet. He looked around for something to stanch the flow—

—and saw himself in the doorway. Except that wasn't him; it was Jones in his body, blue eyes widening as they took in the scene.

"SWAT's pulling up outside," Jones told Peter, and then he was at Neal's side, comforting because he was Jones and he knew who Neal was and what to do. Neal relaxed his guard a little. "You okay?" asked Jones. "How bad is it? Let me see."

He pried Neal's hand from the wound, and Neal hissed as air hit it. He checked that Peter was otherwise occupied with the arrests and muttered to Jones, "This is my fault. I shouldn't have—"

"It happens. Don't worry about it," Jones interrupted. He pressed Neal into a chair and tore the sleeve open so he could get a proper look at the wound.

"I got you shot," said Neal. He was feeling a little light-headed. And guilty. The guilt obliterated any residual impulse to fill Peter in on what was really going on. Luckily, Jones seemed inclined to keep it quiet too.

Jones held out his hand. "Pocket knife?"

Neal blinked at him, dazed, until Jones indicated his pants pocket. Neal dug out a small Swiss army knife, trying not to get too much blood on the pants in the process, and Jones used the knife to cut away the rest of the shirt sleeve.

"Sorry about your shirt," said Neal.

"It's just a shirt," said Jones. "We're not all fashionistas like you, Caffrey."

Neal watched his own mouth curve at the corner and thought about kissing it, and then grinned despite everything. Jones had been right about the narcissism. Except, wait, he'd said that in a dream.

Jones wadded up the shirtsleeve and pressed it to Neal's arm. "It's only a flesh wound," he said. "You can still bite their kneecaps."

"Monty Python?" Neal's eyebrows went up. Jones gave a tiny shrug and grinned for real, and warmth bloomed in Neal's chest, despite the pain in his arm. "This is very Florence Nightingale of you."

"When you two are done," said Peter, suddenly close, looming over both of them, "there's an ambulance waiting for you outside. Neal, go with Jones to the hospital. I'll take Herbertson and Lisa in to booking and get a statement out of Wallace, and meet you there soon."

"No need," said Neal hastily, doing his best to look like he wasn't bleeding. "I'm fine. It's only superficial."

"Do what I say," said Peter. "It's a gunshot wound, and we have protocols for a reason. Neal, let the EMTs know we'll be out in a minute."

Jones handed Neal the sodden shirtsleeve, and Neal pressed it to his arm. The bleeding had nearly stopped, but there was no point arguing with Peter.

Peter waited until Jones in Neal's body was out of earshot, and said, "Are you all right? Good. What happened?"

"How do you mean?" asked Neal. He stood up, still shaky, and they headed for the door together.

"Trying to talk Lisa down? Offering her a deal?" Peter gave him a shrewd look. "You sounded like you were channeling Neal."

"Not well enough," said Neal, ruefully. "Caffrey doesn't get shot."

"That's beside the point. He's not an agent." Peter clapped him gently on the shoulder, on his uninjured side. "You are. Remember that. We don't promise deals to armed suspects unless we have no alternative."

Neal nodded as they stepped out into the street. "I won't forget again."

Peter went to see to Herbertson and Lisa, and Neal met Jones by the ambulance. The adrenaline had worn off and Neal could feel the cold now. He was grateful when someone wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and started seeing to his arm.

"What was that about?" asked Jones, jerking his head at Peter's retreating back.

"I tried to talk down the woman with the gun," said Neal. "Peter said I sounded like I was channeling me." Jones shook his head, exasperated, and Neal shrugged his uninjured shoulder without disrupting the EMT's ministrations. "Talk is what I do."

"People listen differently when you're holding a gun on them," said Jones.

"And when you're black?" said Neal. "How much does that factor in?" Half the work of a con was convincing the mark you were trustworthy and harmless. Even if you looked and sounded like Jones, if you had to overcome kneejerk prejudices it would be doubly hard to pull a scam—or neutralize an armed suspect.

"Some. Probably." Jones leaned against the ambulance and folded his arms. For a moment Neal could see him behind the blue eyes and pale skin: Clinton Jones, firm, honest and sure of himself. It was unsettling. "How much difference does it make having this thing on your ankle?"

Neal tilted his head. "Touché."

The EMT taped some gauze over his wound. "It's not serious, but you need some stitches and a tetanus shot."

"It'll leave a scar." Neal made a face at Jones, guilty all over again.

"Scars add character," said Jones. "Let's get you to the hospital."

   
*

   
The hospital waiting room was crowded. The nurse on the desk handed over a bunch of forms and a pen. "Wait over there. Someone will be with you as soon as possible."

"No hurry," said Neal. "It's not serious."

He and Jones went to sit near the window, out of the way. Jones got them bad coffee from a vending machine and then he filled out the insurance details while Neal sat beside him, trying to ignore the pain in his arm. Finally Jones gave him the clipboard with the completed paperwork. "As soon as Peter gets here, I end this. Aside from anything else, you're officially a flight risk, and I'm the one wearing the tracking anklet. What do I need to do to get back in my own body?"

"Mozzie has the machine," said Neal.

Jones nodded. "Then I'm going to find Mozzie."

Neal touched his arm. "If you talk to him, he'll figure out you're not me in about two seconds."

"So let him figure it out," said Jones. "Better yet, I'll tell him."

Neal thought about Mozzie's reaction to that news and the potential security breach of Jones in Neal's body. He tried not to panic. "That's really not a good idea. Let me take the pain—I earned it—and wait till we switch back. Then I promise I'll get the machine off him and bring it to you."

Jones frowned. "Listen, I know you two have secrets. This isn't about that. I just want to get—"

"What did Mozzie say to you on the phone?" asked Neal. "When we switched."

"Something about leaving the city," said Jones, blue eyes calm and guileless. "I told him I'd talk to him later and ended the call."

Neal didn't know whether to believe him or not, but pressing the issue would only cause suspicion. "You're a complicated man, Clinton Jones," he said, to distract them both. He drank a mouthful of coffee, grimacing at the watery over-sugared travesty.

"I'm just me." Jones shrugged. "Not so complicated when I'm all in one piece."

"You know, we should probably stick together until we've got this sorted out," said Neal. "Another switch like today and who knows what could happen. You could have been in the middle of a standoff. I could have gotten your head blown off."

"Right," said Jones, but there was a stubborn tilt to his chin. "Or I could track down Mozzie and the machine, and we could put an end to this once and for all." He sounded determined, and Neal had to look away, disconcerted at finding that attractive: Jones in Neal's own body. It was confusing, probably the kind of messed-up feeling Neal should back away from without making any sudden movements. He flexed his injured arm, needing the pain to ground him, given the improbable facts of the day, and it flared obligingly. He gritted his teeth to keep from hissing. "Ow."

Jones shook his head and looked like he was about to say something, but Peter and Diana turned up before he could get any words out.

"Hey," said Diana, kinder and more sympathetic than she'd ever been to Neal before.

Neal tried not to mind. "Hey."

"Okay, Neal, you can go," Peter said to Jones, sitting down on Neal's other side. "Diana will drive you. Jones, how are you doing? Do you need me to pull some strings and get you bumped up the list?"

"I'm okay," said Neal. "They're saving lives in there. I can wait."

"I'll wait with you," said Peter.

 _Great,_ thought Neal, _that's just what I need._ But there wasn't much he could do about it. Jones caught his eye, nodded and left, and Neal watched his body disappear through the double doors with Diana, and sat there, doing his best Clinton Jones impersonation and trying not to give anything away. He should warn Moz, but he couldn't. He'd just have to cross his fingers and hope for the best.

"I'm glad to get a chance to talk with you in private," said Peter after a few minutes' silence. He stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. "You've probably noticed Diana and I have been having some closed-door meetings, and I want you to know I'm not deliberately keeping you in the dark. It's one of those situations where the fewer people involved, the better. I don't want Neal getting wind of the manifest."

Manifest? Neal forced himself not to react. Either Peter would let something slip, or Neal could subtly question Jones about it when they were alone—or Diana, if he and Jones hadn't switched back yet. Trying to worm information out of Peter was a recipe for disaster and discovery; Peter was too astute to toy with. Neal couldn't resist prying a little, though. "You still suspect Caffrey of stealing the treasure from the sub?"

"If the art's still out there, it's the heist of the century," said Peter. "Who but Neal could pull that off?"

Neal nodded, hiding bitter amusement. Maybe Mozzie had the right idea in letting people underestimate him. Maybe that was smart. It was definitely one way to avoid suspicion. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Caffrey's been coloring inside the lines for a couple of years now."

"I know," said Peter. "Believe me, I hope I'm wrong about this. But if he saw his chance, do you think he could resist taking it? All that art, all those jewels."

 _I guess we'll never know,_ thought Neal. Mozzie had pre-empted Fate and temptation, and presented him with a fait accompli. Neal kept his expression neutral and refused to squirm. "Maybe we don't know him as well as we think we do."

"Maybe," said Peter slowly. "We know him as well as he'll let us." He narrowed his eyes at Neal, studying him, and Neal's stomach swooped. Busted! He nearly asked, _How did you know?_ but then Peter sighed and gave him a small smile. "Clinton, you know as well as I do that Neal can be extremely charming. Just do me a favor and be careful."

Neal felt his eyes widen despite himself. "It's not like that," he said. "Whatever you think is going on, you're wrong."

"Whatever it's like, that's none of my business. That's between you and him," said Peter, calmly. He faced front, giving Neal a chance to regain his composure. "Maybe I'm wrong about the art, maybe not, but either way, you're a good guy, Clinton. Don't let Neal lead you astray. I don't want to see you get hurt."

"Again?" said Neal, swallowing down the inchoate emotions that were threatening to rise up in him.

Peter raised his eyebrows interrogatively, and Neal indicated the dressing on his arm, making Peter smile wryly. They both lapsed into silence.

Neal had plenty to think about. Peter had just warned Jones off _and_ given them his blessing, in one mixed-up speech. Neal didn't know whether to be flattered or resentful, but the whole thing was moot anyway. Neal might be attracted to Jones, but it wasn't serious and it certainly wasn't requited. Still, it was interesting to learn that fraternization rules were apparently less of a big deal than Neal had always assumed.

   
*

   
Once the doctor had stitched Neal up and given him a prescription for antibiotics, Peter dropped him off at Jones' place. Neal dug in his pockets and found a handful of change, Jones' phone, door keys and a small, angular metal object. He couldn't call Mozzie from Jones' phone with Jones' voice, so he let himself into the apartment, switched on the light and looked at the metal object.

It was a flight badge.

Neal ran his thumb along its edges, remembering Lawrence holding Jones captive, his goons loading crates of money from the Federal Reserve onto Mozzie's plane, and how Neal himself had ripped the badge from Mozzie's flight suit and secretly passed it to Jones so he could pick his handcuffs.

That had been weeks ago, and Jones was still carrying it around. Could it be related to the switches? Was that why Neal kept trading places with Jones? He hesitated. He could ask Mozzie, but that would mean confessing. He could hide the badge, destroy it, but what if they stuck like this? Or swapped with someone else?

Neal didn't want to stay in Jones' body indefinitely, especially given how he was starting to feel about the guy. That was just creepy. But he didn't want to solve the problem, step away and have both of them forget about it either. He felt closer to Jones—to Clinton—than he had to anyone in a long time, he trusted him at least as much as he trusted Peter, and if Neal got out of Clinton's hair entirely, that would be that.

Besides, there was every chance the flight badge was a red herring. Pure coincidence. And Clinton had known about it all along, so it wasn't like Neal was keeping secrets. If anything, Clinton was the one concealing possible evidence.

Neal tried the two doors off the living room: the first was the bathroom, the second, the bedroom, with its large, unmade bed and plain dresser. Clinton's shirt was a write-off and there was blood on the pants, reminding Neal he'd been shot, taken his first bullet since he got out of prison. He put the keys and the badge on the dresser and threw the shirt in the trash, telling himself to calm down. Breathe. He'd been lucky, as always. It really was little more than a scrape.

He was tempted to take a shower, but he wasn't sure if the dressing on his arm would survive it, and he'd already intruded into Clinton's shower once, so he settled for clean clothes. He rummaged one-handed through the neatly folded clothes in the drawers, found sweatpants and a Quantico T-shirt and changed. That was better. He started to run his hand through his hair, forgetting Clinton kept his cropped, and caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye. A mirror. He went over to study the face he was stuck behind.

It was a good face, attractive, friendly and intelligent with a directness in the gaze that was as much Clinton as it was Neal's practiced "trust me" look. A well-defined chin, full lips, clear skin. Neal absentmindedly ran his hand down over his chest and flat stomach, watching his reflection as he did so, noting the strength of the body, the contrast between white T-shirt and dark skin, the capable hands. Ridiculously aware of himself.

He needed a drink.

The only bottle of wine he could find in the kitchen was a screw-top—what was it with Feds and their lousy taste in beverages?—so he settled for beer, removing the lid with some difficulty, given his patched-up arm. But he managed without making too much of a mess, texted his own phone to say where he was and kicked back on the comfy beige couch, waiting for his other half to walk in the door.

   
*

   
He was woken by a buzzing sound. Clinton's phone. It was just past ten p.m. according to the display, and the call was from Sharona. Neal should probably have let it go to voicemail but curiosity got the better of him. "Hey."

"Hey, yourself. How's it going? I really need to talk to you about Vonnie." She sounded stressed.

Neal sat up so he could concentrate. "Okay, talk."

Sharona sighed. "Her friends are always getting into trouble. And today her teacher called me at work and said he wants to talk to me, and Von won't tell me what happened. She's driving me crazy!"

Neal thought back to every family sitcom he'd ever seen. "Relax. Kids are supposed to drive you crazy. That's their purpose in life. Vonnie's a good kid—she'll be fine. Remember, you weren't exactly a saint at her age either."

It was shameless fishing for dirt, and it paid off. "Hey, _I_ wasn't the one who broke into the Ledleys' house and liberated their cockatiel," Sharona shot back. At least she was easily distracted from her problems. "You know what Mom always said."

"Boys will be boys?" hazarded Neal, storing up these tidbits for later use. Relieved that Sharona was Clinton's sister and not his girlfriend. She sounded nice. She was also probably the S. Trapper from the bills in the sushi kitchen, which would make Vonnie the teenager with the red-framed glasses.

"Idiot," said Sharona. "That thing about apologies and forgiveness."

"Oh, that thing," said Neal, teasingly. There was a knock on the front door. "Hey, listen, I've got to go. I've got a visitor."

"At this hour?" He could practically hear her eyebrows going up. "Who is she?"

"Not like that," he told her. "It's work. I'll talk to you tomorrow." He disconnected.

Clinton was on the doorstep, waiting to be let in. "No sign of Mozzie or the machine at your place," he said, without preamble, going to get a beer for himself. He flicked the bottle cap into the sink and got distracted for a second, looking at his hand, bending and flexing the fingers. Not really his hand. He looked up and met Neal's gaze. "Where do we look next?"

If Mozzie wasn't at June's, he was probably at the warehouse, surrounded by piles of stolen treasure.

"He could be anywhere," Neal told Clinton, which was technically true. "You want me to go find him?"

Clinton pointed at him. "Not on your own. You are not going anywhere unsupervised in my body with my ID."

That was rich, given Clinton had been running around in Neal's body for hours now, talking to God only knew who and potentially doing all kinds of damage to Neal's reputation. Neal leaned against the breakfast bar and folded his arms. "That cuts both ways."

Clinton shook his head. "I'm not a felon on work release."

"Which means you probably have fewer things to hide," Neal pointed out.

Clinton tilted his head back to take a swig of beer, and Neal watched him swallow, fascinated and disturbed by his own reaction. That was his own mouth, his own throat! Thankfully, Clinton seemed to be oblivious to the undercurrents. He sighed and said, "Okay, I'll make you a deal."

Neal dragged his attention back to the conversation.

"As long as we keep ending up like this—" Clinton waved his hand between the two of them. "—anything I happen to find out about your backroom wheeling and off-the-books dealing stays between us."

Neal blinked. He hadn't expected that great a concession. "Is that a promise?"

Clinton took a deep breath. "It would be inadmissible as evidence anyway. It's a promise."

Neal held out his hand, and Clinton shook it, firm and confident. It was a deal. Mozzie wouldn't believe in it, would tell Neal he was being naïve, blinded by attraction. Would remind him that Jones was a Fed, for crying out loud, but Neal knew Clinton was good for it.

Still, it would be better if they didn't have to put it to the test.

They were still shaking hands, and Clinton was watching him, assessing his reaction. "Cuts both ways, right?"

Neal kept his smile pinned in place and thought about Peter's allusion to a manifest, the opportunities that were open to him with such a perfect disguise. He dismissed them all without a qualm. "Right," he said. "Of course. What happens in Fight Club."

"Okay," said Clinton, apparently taking him at his word. He withdrew his hand. "Have you eaten?"

"A roll from a vending machine at the hospital," said Neal, wrinkling his nose. "So no, not really."

"Me neither." Clinton reached for the phone next to the coffee maker. "Pizza or Thai?"

   
*

   
Two beers, two Tylenol and one pepperoni pizza later, Neal remembered something. "Sharona called."

Clinton stopped channel surfing. "When?"

"Just before you got home," said Neal. "Something about the Ledleys' cockatiel. I told her I'd—you'd get back to her tomorrow."

"Did she sound like there was something wrong?" Clinton sat forward, frowning. "Maybe I should call back. Give me my phone."

"It's nearly eleven and you sound like me," said Neal, handing it over. "She's worried about Vonnie, but it wasn't urgent." Sharona had been too easily distracted for it to have been an emergency. "Your sister, right?"

Clinton nodded, turning his phone over in his hand, obviously troubled he couldn't call her. It was enough to make Neal want to go out and find Mozzie and insist he turn off the machine—except that discussion would create far more problems than it solved, especially if Neal tried to pull rank in his current position as a Fed. Neal opted for distracting Clinton instead. He recalled his brief visit to Philadelphia: Vonnie and what she'd said. "So, who's Jessica, and is she really gay?"

"What?" Clinton looked up from his phone. It took a second or two for the penny to drop. "Oh, my niece. Jessica's her cousin, and Vonnie has a bad habit of saying something's gay when she means it sucks. I've been trying to cure her of it."

"Why does Jessica suck?" Neal leaned across and grabbed the remote where it was lying next to Clinton's thigh He turned the volume on the TV down to a murmur.

"She's moving to Philly to go to Penn, and she'll be staying with my sister for the first year. It's a pretty small apartment for three, and Vonnie's used to having a lot of it to herself. She doesn't like to share." Clinton shrugged. "There are worse things."

"Like sharing a body?" said Neal.

Clinton smiled, acknowledging the hit, then grew serious. "Like leaving home for the first time. It's a big move for everyone."

Neal could see Clinton behind his own face, the serious, protective big brother, taking everyone's feelings into account. It made Neal like him more than he should. More than was appropriate. Neal went to get them each another beer. "You know, I'm surprised you haven't started a family of your own."

"I almost got married once," said Clinton, when Neal returned. He opened both bottles and gave one back to Neal. "But I don't know. It's never been the right time or the right person, and with work being the way it is—"

He'd said _person_ , not _woman_ or _girl_ , but Neal told himself that didn't necessarily mean anything. "One day," he said. "You're quite a catch, Clinton Jones. Anyway, it's probably just as well right now, given what's going on. Could be awkward if one of us was in a relationship. Waking up in someone else's body wrapped up in someone _else's_ arms."

Clinton looked down at his beer bottle. "Yeah."

Neal watched him for a moment, unsure how much of the attraction he was feeling was narcissism and how much was about the guy inside the body. Neal couldn't disentangle the two. A smart person would keep his distance, and Neal decided that for once, he'd let wisdom triumph over temptation.

He made a show of yawning. "I should crash. Got a spare pillow? I'll take the couch."

Clinton stood up. "House rules: the person with the gunshot wound gets the bed."

"When you put it like that," said Neal, and went to the bathroom. He deliberately kept his mind on the Mozzie problem while he went to the toilet, distracting himself and letting habit carry him along. He washed his hands and looked at the toothbrush in the rack, and his focus caught up with him. Using Clinton's toothbrush felt like a bridge too far in the intimacy stakes, but he was in Clinton's body, so technically, it was the right toothbrush to use. Not that there was an alternative. Neal brushed quickly and went to bed.

   
*

   
In his dream, he was in a kitchen in Philadelphia. There was a Savonnerie rug on the floor and he was himself, bare-chested and barefoot. He opened the oven door to check on the painting that was ageing there—his painting of the Chrysler building—and someone put their hand on the small of his back, a strong hand, warm and gentle against his skin. Neal didn't have to look to know it was Clinton.

"Is that a forgery?" Clinton asked, peering past him into the oven.

"I forged my own painting," said Neal. "Twice. It doesn't count." He stood up and let the oven door spring shut. Clinton's hand was still on him, which meant that when Neal turned, they were almost embracing.

There was a smile in Clinton's eyes. "We have got to stop meeting like this."

Neal laughed, and the kitchen walls fell away and then they were drifting through the blazing blue sky, nothing under them but the antique rug, its bloodstain still wet, its edges rippling in the breeze. Nothing to hold onto but Clinton, solid and dependable. The sun flared above them, and Neal fell to his knees and grabbed Clinton's wrist, dragging him down onto the rug with him. "The end is nigh. What if I don't want to stop?"

"No one gets everything they want." Clinton's hand slid over Neal's ribs, up to the base of his throat. "Not even you."

"Who says I want you?" said Neal, bluffing, playing for time and self-control, not caring that he was contradicting himself. He was on the verge of capitulating, of just going for it, regardless of how stupid and dangerous it would be. This was just a vertiginous dream; Mozzie would never find out.

Clinton's smile turned wicked, and he moved his hand to the front of Neal's pants, where his prick strained against the fabric. "Is this a forgery?"

"If it is, it's very good," said Neal. The rug had transformed into a cloud or a feather bed, and the blue sky was closing in around them. Neal pulled Clinton down into a kiss, a hot consuming kiss that made his body ache.

"Oh God," said Clinton, gripping Neal's hips and tugging him closer. "This isn't anything like I expected."

A second later, something hit Neal's arm and it stung like a bullet.

   


## Chapter 3 – Tuesday

He woke on Clinton's couch, covered with a red woolen blanket, with a crick in his neck. His hands were his own hands, his arm was uninjured, and the light of the tracking anklet glowed green on his ankle. He sighed, relieved and let down and frustrated, wishing he'd clung to sleep just a few minutes longer. He could have had Clinton and been done with it, without risk to either of them. Instead, it was going to be another day of conflicted emotions and being irrationally irked by Clinton's lack of interest. Neal pushed himself up to a seated position, scrubbed his hands over his face and went to make coffee.

His dreams weren't usually so vivid and they didn't usually stick in his mind like this one, but he still thought it was just a dream. Clinton emerged from the bedroom ten minutes later in shorts and an old T-shirt. He ambled into the kitchen and poured himself coffee without much more than a grunt of greeting—Not a morning person, Neal noted to himself. He gave no sign of self-consciousness or interest in Neal.

Clinton guzzled his first cup of coffee and poured himself another. He sat on a bar stool and tilted his head. "You know, if anyone checks your tracking data, they're going to get the wrong idea about us."

Right. The wrong idea. Neal could still feel the memory of his hand, the slide of their skin as they moved together, but that was a dream.

"No one's going to check my GPS," he said. It hardly seemed the time to mention that Peter had pretty much given them his blessing. Neal busied himself buttering toast so he wouldn't look at Clinton's broad shoulders and capable hands. "How's your arm?"

"Still attached." After Clinton's third cup of coffee, he was recognizably Agent Clinton Jones. He disappeared back into the bedroom, reappeared ten minutes later, dressed and ready to go. Neal had showered and tidied himself as best he could, given the state of his clothes.

"Come on," said Clinton. "We're going back to your apartment. That's the last place you saw the little guy, right?"

"Right. And that means I don't have to do a walk of shame," said Neal, already planning what clothes to change into. "What about the FBI?" It was nearly eight o'clock; Peter would be expecting them.

Clinton ushered him out the door. "I got shot yesterday. You're helping me out. The FBI can wait."

   
*

   
There was no sign of Mozzie or the crate of metaphysical prototypes at Neal's place. Neal went to Byron's closet under the pretext of getting a change of clothes, and as he'd expected, the body-swapping machine was gone too. The panel with the outlines of hands was still in its hiding place, and Neal left it there. He chose a charcoal suit and white shirt—this wasn't the day to make a fashion statement, especially given he and Clinton might trade bodies again—and went back into the main room. Clinton was gone.

Neal grabbed the first tie that came to hand—pale green silk—and slung it around his neck as he checked the patio. It was deserted. He came back inside wondering if there'd been a machine in the crate that could make people disappear into thin air just as Clinton walked back in the door.

"I asked June," said Clinton. "She hasn't seen Mozzie since yesterday morning. How do we find him?"

"To start with, I call him." Neal knotted his tie, checked the mirror and got out his phone. Mozzie answered on the second ring. "Hey, Moz, whatcha doing?"

"Why are you calling me?" Mozzie sounded accusatory. "This is an unsecured line."

"It's fine," said Neal soothingly. "I need the machine, you know the one. Stop whatever you've been doing with it and bring it back to June's. Please."

"How do you know I've done anything with it?" asked Mozzie.

Neal rolled his eyes. "Because I know you."

There was a click and the line went dead. Neal looked at his phone. Mozzie had disconnected.

"What's happening?" asked Clinton, and Neal held up a hand to stop him as he re-dialed.

As soon as Mozzie answered, he said, "I'll explain later, I promise. Just bring it here." There was no reply. "Moz?"

"How do I know I can trust you?" asked Mozzie. "You spent the night with a Suit."

Neal went cold. "You're stalking me now?"

"I don't need to stalk you," said Mozzie loftily.

Neal frowned, then twigged. "You hacked my GPS." Of course he had. "Fine. Yes, I spent the night at Jones' apartment, but it's not what you think."

"He's with you now. What are you, joined at the hip?"

"How do you know he's with me?" Neal looked around, half expecting to see Mozzie hiding behind the couch, watching him through a periscope. Instead, he saw a black dot above the front door. "You've got video surveillance on my apartment. Fantastic." He ran his hand through his hair, adding Mozzie's weak grip on sanity to his already lengthy list of concerns. "Look, this isn't about you or anything that belongs to you. Jones is only here to make sure I get the machine back. I mean it, Moz. Then everything will go back to normal, and we can find Lolana a new home."

"Lolana?" mouthed Clinton silently.

Neal shrugged and turned away, concentrating on calming Mozzie's suspicions without saying anything indiscreet in front of Clinton. Deal or not, Mozzie would never trust him again if he thought Neal was sharing information with the FBI. "Are you still there?"

"Meet me at the warehouse," said Mozzie. "Alone."

Neal gritted his teeth in frustration. "You know I can't do that. My tracking anklet— Bring the machine to June's."

"Where you and your Fed friend no doubt have a SWAT team waiting to arrest me. I don't think so."

"Moz, I would never—" Neal frowned. Something was seriously wrong. "You're paranoid. Even more than usual."

"It's not paranoia if your friends are lying to you."

"Look, I have Jones with me," said Neal. "I can't come to that location. Pick somewhere else."

"Not unless you ditch the Fed."

Neal looked over his shoulder at Clinton, who was perusing the bookcase. After the events of yesterday, Neal couldn't see Clinton letting him out of his sight until the machine was well and truly dismantled. "It's not that easy."

The line went dead again. Neal tried to call back, but the phone went straight to voicemail.

Clinton turned to face him with a history of Chinese art open in his hand. "What did he say?"

"It's possible that one of the other machines in Mozzie's collection is a paranoia intensifier," said Neal bitterly. It was even more likely that having billions of dollars of treasure stolen out from under the FBI's collective nose was having the same effect, but Neal could hardly say that.

Clinton's mouth quirked. "Mozzie is more paranoid? Is that even possible?"

Neal shrugged helplessly.

"So what now?" Clinton snapped the book shut and re-shelved it.

Neal set his favorite hat on his head and slid his hands into his pockets. One of them closed around the crystal, but he wasn't ready to let go of that. He met Clinton's eye and smiled with fake confidence, careful to make sure his face was out of range of Mozzie's surveillance camera. "Now we need a middle man."

   
*

   
The clouds were heavy and gray, but it hadn't started raining when Neal directed Clinton to park beside the abandoned warehouse. "Our non-disclosure deal is still in force? Then this is it."

"You're kidding me, right?" said Clinton, turning off the engine. He shook his head and got out to look in the trunk of the car.

"I know it doesn't look like much," said Neal, following him, "but Hale's our best chance to get through to Mozzie. What are you doing?"

"Dressing the part," said Clinton. He'd taken off his coat, suit jacket and tie, and was shrugging into a battered brown leather jacket so soft looking that Neal itched to reach out and touch it. Clinton unbuttoned his shirt collar, went back to the driver's door and leaned across to rummage through the glovebox, emerging with a pair of sunglasses, which he slid onto the top of his head. "Okay. Follow my lead."

"What?" said Neal. "No. Let me do the talking." But Clinton was already walking toward Hale's empty lot, his gait somehow cockier than usual. Neal hurried in his wake before Clinton could blow their chance of finding Moz.

Hale raised a hand in greeting when he saw them, but his first words made no sense. "Jonas," he called across the broken asphalt. "It's been a long, long time, my friend." He walked up to Clinton and they exchanged a complicated handshake. "How have you been?"

"Inside, outside, upside-down," said Clinton easily. "You know how it is. You? Maria sends her best."

Neal felt his jaw start to drop and hastily pulled himself together. He tipped his hat to Hale, who replied with a gracious nod but was still focused on Clinton AKA Jonas. _Jonas?_ What the hell?

"Business is brisk. Can't complain," said Hale. "I didn't know you gentlemen were acquainted."

"Oh, we go way back," said Neal, trying to get a foothold on the situation.

"Sometime in 2004, if I recall correctly," said Clinton vaguely. "Was it the Egyptian statuette or the Japanese scroll?"

Neal met his gaze and saw mischief lurking there. He hid an answering grin and got with the program. "The statuette was Assyrian, but it was the scroll."

Hale was watching them with fatherly approval. "So, tell me before the skies open and the deluge begins, how can I be of service?"

"I need to talk with a guy called Mozzie about a government plan to systematically replace aspartame with fluoride in soft drinks. I have a leaked report he needs to see," said Clinton, with a perfect balance of irony and gravity. Hale would know as well as they did that it was a line, but he'd have plausible deniability if Mozzie asked. "Neal was going to hook us up, but—"

"—but Moz and I had a little misunderstanding," interrupted Neal. Much as he would have liked to hear the rest of Clinton's cover story, they had to keep this relatively simple.

"Trouble in paradise?" Hale asked Neal, raising his eyebrows. "Mozzie promised me a piece, and he has yet to deliver."

"I'll talk to him about that too, if you'd be kind enough to set up a meeting," said Neal. "We're not cutting you out. It's just that Mozzie's gone to ground and we need to talk to him, and— Well, it would probably be best if you didn't mention my name."

Hale gave him a searching look, then nodded. "If it will get me my piece, I'm happy to help."

"I'll do my best," said Neal. "And I'll owe you one. Thanks, Hale."

"I'll contact you with the time and place," said Hale. He slapped them on the shoulder, one after the other and turned toward his car just as the rain started to fall.

Back in the car, Neal examined his silk tie for water damage while Clinton threw his sunglasses into the glovebox and wiped the rain from his face. Then they looked at each other.

"You have an alias who's a thief?" said Neal, not quite managing to hide his enthusiasm for this development.

Clinton tilted his head like he heard Neal's interest loud and clear. There was still a glint of mischief in his eyes. "I did some undercover work a few years back. What, you think you're the only one with game?"

"No, sir." Neal took off his hat and twirled it between his fingers. "Not anymore."

"Glad to hear it." Clinton started the car and pulled a U-turn so they were heading for midtown and the office, and Neal watched him surreptitiously, tempted by far more than just the buttery softness of his leather jacket.

   
*

   
When Neal and Clinton walked into the office at nine-thirty, Clinton back in his suit and tie and Neal only slightly rain-damp, Peter was standing by Diana's desk discussing a case file. Peter and Diana both looked up, and the curious expression on Peter's face reminded Neal of their conversation in the hospital waiting room.

"Mozzie's having one of his paranoia attacks and he's gone into hiding. Jones was helping me track him down," Neal said casually, trying to preempt any assumptions on Peter's part. "Sorry we're late."

"Hmm," said Peter. "Well, you're here now, and we have a new case. Neal, conference room in fifteen minutes. Jones, how's your arm?"

Clinton raised his arm, testing it. "I'll live."

"Good," said Peter. "I need your incident report on yesterday ASAP."

He walked away, and Neal and Clinton exchanged glances. They should have talked about that earlier; there was no way Clinton could write that report on his own. Neal left Clinton to shoot the breeze with Diana and went to log in to his computer. He had fifteen minutes to send Clinton an email describing exactly what had happened in Herbertson's office the day before.

That done, he got a cup of coffee and went up to see Peter.

"Herbertson flipped on the head of an identity theft syndicate she was doing business with," said Peter, looking up from a pile of police reports. "We need to get in and gather all the evidence we can before he gets wind that something's up."

Neal frowned. "We did a deal with Herbertson? Her assistant shot—" _Me. Clinton._ "—Jones."

"The assistant's been booked," said Peter. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "You're taking this awfully personally. What's going on?"

"We're a team," said Neal, picking the top report off the stack without looking at it. "This is the first time anyone here's been shot since I've been working with you guys. It's a big deal."

"It is and it isn't," said Peter. "This isn't like when Larsen shot Mozzie. Jones is fine, and—" His voice softened. "Neal, you're not responsible for what happened. You weren't even there."

"It's not about that." Neal snapped his mouth shut and sat down. He was used to keeping secrets from Peter—that was business as usual—but this was different, and the urge to confide was back, stronger today because he knew Peter suspected there was something personal going on between him and Clinton.

Neal considered the pros and cons of spilling the beans. It would be an excellent way to divert Peter's attention from the stolen art, but the strange tale had its own risks: it would raise inconvenient questions that Neal was in no hurry to answer—about the origin of the machine, how Mozzie had come by it, why Neal kept switching places with Clinton of all people.

Neal opened the police report and changed the subject before he succumbed to the revelatory impulse. He and Peter spent the rest of the morning spit-balling ideas for bringing down the identity theft syndicate. Neal did his best to steer the brainstorming away from his going in undercover, in case Mozzie and the machine were still AWOL by the time Peter put the plan into action: Clinton might be convincing as Jonas the thief, but being flung cold into a potentially hostile situation was another thing entirely, and Neal had already gotten him hurt once.

Around lunchtime Neal received a text message from Hale, which simply said: _Chelsea Park, 10:07AM tomorrow_.

Neal replied with _Thanks_ and decided to keep the meeting to himself for now. If he could slip away without Clinton, so much the better.

"Let's break for lunch," said Peter, as Neal slid his phone back into his pocket. "We'll bring the rest of the team up to speed this afternoon."

   
*

   
Later that afternoon, after the briefing, when Peter was meeting with Hughes, and Diana, Clinton and Blake were at the coffee machine, Neal sat at his desk, leafing through files and trying not to go crazy with all the things he should be fixing—finding and destroying the bodyswap machine, talking Mozzie off his paranoid ledge, convincing Peter once and for all that he didn't have the art, planning an escape with the art, nosing out more about the manifest Peter had mentioned. Neal closed his eyes for a second and breathed, forcing his focus back onto the files in front of him. At times like this, the drudge work of cases was actually soothing. As soon as he thought that, he felt the air around him shift.

He was standing. He had a hot coffee mug in his hand and a slightly forced smile on his face. He and Clinton had switched again. Dammit.

Plus, Diana was in the middle of teasing Clinton about something, if her grin was anything to go by. "You're sure nothing's going on?"

"Not as far as I know," said Neal, fairly confident that was the right answer. He raised his eyebrows at Blake pointedly.

"Guess I should get back to work," said Blake. Neal felt a bit mean, but wow, Clinton's quiet authority was a more powerful weapon than he'd realized.

He took a deep breath to release the tension bunching up his shoulders, glanced over and saw himself—Clinton—sitting at his desk, watching him. Neal gave him a helpless shrug. Clinton beckoned surreptitiously, and Neal held up a finger, _One minute,_ and followed Diana to her desk, where he perched next to her in-tray. If he was stuck in Clinton's body, he might as well take advantage of it. "So, have you and Peter made any headway with the manifest?" he asked in a conspiratorial undertone.

Diana cast him a sharp glance and then looked around to make sure no one else was listening. "We can't talk about the art manifest here. Caffrey cannot find out about it. Boss' orders."

An art manifest? That couldn't be good. "Of course," said Neal smoothly. "I forgot."

Diana leaned forward and lowered her voice even further. "You know Peter excluding you isn't personal, right? It's one of those 'the less people who know about it, the better' situations."

Like the music box. Clinton had been sidelined for most of that intrigue too. Neal nodded. "Same old, same old."

"Hey, guys," said a familiar voice, oddly distorted. His own voice, once removed. "What's going on?"

Neal looked around slowly, refusing to show either alarm or guilt. Clinton's smile was genial, but there was steel in his gaze. "Caffrey?" said Neal.

"I need a word." Clinton's expression brooked no argument, so Neal shrugged at Diana and followed Clinton back to the desk by the main door.

"What was that about?" asked Clinton, as soon as they were out of earshot. "Neal, if you take advantage of my body—" He stumbled, flushing slightly, but recovered quickly. "Of being _in_ my body, I'll rescind our non-disclosure agreement and make you wish you'd never bargained your way out of prison. You keep away from my network access too."

"Calm down," said Neal. "Peter will notice." He braced his arm on the desk, looking over Clinton's shoulder as if they were consulting on a file. "What do you want to do? We could switch back at any time. You want to stay and bluff it out till then?"

"Do we have a choice?" said Clinton.

Neal smiled. "There's always a choice. Just—keep it simple, Jonas."

Clinton blinked, took a deep breath and nodded, and they went up to Peter's office, Neal taking care to stay a step or two ahead. He knocked on the doorframe, but it was Clinton who spoke to Peter, getting in there before Neal could make his case.

"Mozzie's sending out a distress signal," he told Peter. "Mind if I—?"

Peter put down his pen. "Have you heard from him?"

"It's more a kind of disturbance in the Force," said Clinton.

Neal refrained from rolling his eyes and instead chose to admire Clinton's angle of attack: a misleading truth was always more satisfying than an out-and-out lie.

Peter sighed and looked at his watch. "Go."

"Thanks, Peter," said Clinton. He tilted his head. "Jones—?"

"Sure, why not." Peter shook his head, resignedly. "I'm sure one of these days someone will clue me in." He met Neal's eye. "Keep an eye on Neal, and rest your arm."

"On it," said Neal. He and Clinton both stepped back, while the going was good.

"And tell Diana I need to talk to her," Peter called after them.

Neal relayed the message on his way to collect Clinton's coat, and as they were waiting for the elevator, he looked back and saw Peter take something from his desk and show it to her. The manifest—it had to be.

The elevator chimed and its door slid open. Neal hesitated, considering going back and trying to find out more, but Clinton was hustling him away, and hell, Neal already had enough to deal with. The manifest could wait.

The elevator started to descend, and they were properly alone. " _Star Wars_ ," said Neal. "Seriously?" He caught sight of his reflection in the elevator door, and absentmindedly re-knotted Clinton's tie.

"Hey, _Star Wars_ isn't geeky," said Clinton. "Everyone knows _Star Wars_." He dumped Neal's hat on his head.

"Right," said Neal, grinning at him. "You just keep telling yourself that."

Clinton grinned back, unabashed. Then his smile faded. "Have you heard from Hale?"

"Given Mozzie's current state of mind, it could take Hale a while to convince him it's not a trap," Neal pointed out, avoiding the question, as they walked outside. It had stopped raining, but it was still bitterly cold. Neal wished Clinton had thought to bring a hat. "Now what?"

"Unless you've got a better idea, now we wait," said Clinton. "And, well, I don't know about you, but I could use a damned drink."

   
*

   
Neal clinked his glass against Clinton's and settled back into the comfortable leather seat. "So, tell me about Jonas."

Clinton drank a mouthful of imported beer and looked at the table between them for a moment, as if he were sifting through memories. He moved Neal's hat to the side.

"Off the record," Neal reminded him. "We have a deal."

Clinton ducked his head in acknowledgement and started to talk, and Neal drank and listened, nodded and asked questions, ordered another round, and slowly, inch by inch, relaxed. It was still fascinating watching his own body from the outside, seeing expressions crossing his face and evaluating their effectiveness, but after a while he forgot about that. Clinton was entertaining once he got talking, surprising a laugh out of Neal more than once, and the bar was a nice balance of classy, comfortable and intimate. The ambient light was warm, there were framed bromide prints of classic movie stills on the walls and the waiter came by often enough that their glasses were never empty but not so often it was annoying. And against the odds, the place somehow escaped feeling like either a yuppie joint or a hipster hangout. Maybe it was the music, which was good and not so loud they had to shout to hear each other.

"I had to make nice with this crooked art dealer called Anton," said Clinton, reminiscing. "Little weasel of a guy. One time, he bet me I couldn't walk into the FBI surveillance van and steal their donuts."

Neal laughed. "How much did you win?"

"Five hundred bucks." Clinton shook his head. "People do some crazy things."

"You're right about that," said Neal, thinking of his own reckless stunts when he'd been on the run from the Feds.

"And most times, we only see what we want to see," said Clinton. He leaned forward and pinned Neal with his gaze. "Promise me you didn't plan this whole—" He gestured between them. "—switcheroo as part of some nefarious plot."

Neal leaned forward too. It was a perfectly fair question, but even so, he was a little hurt that Clinton still doubted him. "I promise," he said. "There's no master plan. It's just Mozzie gone rogue."

Clinton shook his head. "What does it say about me that I believe you?"

"It says you're an excellent judge of character." Neal broke eye contact to look into his third—or was it fourth?—glass. There was less than an inch of liquor in the bottom, and he could only feel the wound in his arm if he concentrated hard. "I'm guessing by the state of my alcohol tolerance that you don't drink a lot of martinis."

Clinton's mouth turned up at the corners. "I'm more of a beer guy. Maybe scotch. Hey, if I wake up with your hangover—"

It wasn't much of a threat, but Neal put down his glass. "You want to get something to eat?"

"Yeah." Clinton pushed his glass away too, leaving a damp smear on the table's glossy surface. "A guy at my gym was telling me about a new Italian restaurant just opened, Nicolini's."

Neal tilted his head. "Nicolini's is supposed to be excellent, but we can't go there."

Clinton sent him a questioning look.

"It's a block and a half outside your radius." Neal reached out with his foot and nudged the tracker. Clinton kept his leg there, solid and reliable even when he was in Neal's habitually misleading body, and after a moment, Neal pulled his foot away again.

"A block and a half, huh?" said Clinton, as if hadn't noticed the footplay.

Neal shrugged, accepting the rebuff. "Point two of a mile. One thousand and fifty-six feet, give or take." He stood up. "Come on, there's a good Turkish place around the corner."

   
*

   
They ate rich tangy hummus with pita bread, and then spicy shish kebabs, and Neal revealed more than he meant to about his past life, before prison, his time with Kate. "We used to pretend to be cops," he said. "It was one of our best scams. I lost count of the number of times Kate fake-arrested Moz."

"You're hopeless," Clinton told him, between bites of succulent lamb. He sounded amused, even indulgent. "Incorrigible. God, you can't have been more than a kid."

"Eight years ago," said Neal. "I was twenty-six." He pointed his fork at Clinton. "Not many people know that."

"What, your age? I won't tell." Clinton loaded his own fork with tabouleh.

"I know." Neal was overcome with a sudden wave of inexplicable sadness. "I know you won't. Give me my phone."

"Why?" said Clinton, but he handed it over, and Neal texted Moz: _Moz, cut it out._ But there was no reply, and Neal and Clinton didn't switch back into their own bodies.

Clinton's expression was impassive, not crowding Neal or prying. He just said, "We have work in the morning. I think I need to call it a night." He motioned for the check, and then folded his arms on the table. "Your place or mine?"

Neal's gaze flew to his, startled.

"We're still—" Clinton circled his hand between them. "We need to stick together."

"Of course," said Neal, gathering his wits. He was being stupid. Clinton wouldn't suggest anything untoward, despite Peter's hints. That wasn't going to happen except in Neal's dreams. "Mozzie has my place under video surveillance, so I vote for yours."

"Oh, right," said Clinton, shaking his head. "He needs professional help. Seriously."

"He needs something," said Neal. The check came. Clinton had Neal's wallet. "My treat. I mean it. I'm holding your wallet hostage."

For a moment, Clinton looked like he wanted to argue. Then he caved with a small shrug, slid the card from Neal's wallet and folded it into the leather folder. A few minutes later they went out into the night to find a taxi.

   
*

   
"You know, you're wearing my hat all wrong," said Neal. "It pains me." He was lounging against the breakfast bar while Clinton made coffee and opened his mail. Despite his calling it a night at the restaurant, Clinton didn't seem in any hurry to retire to bed.

Clinton took the offending object off his head and tossed it to Neal without looking, and Neal angled it onto his own head, Clinton's head really, knowing that it looked good but stooping to check his reflection in the glass of the oven door anyway. Clinton's face peered back at him, smiling and confident, with the hat perched stylishly on top. "See?" Neal said, straightening up. "This is much better."

"Hmm," said Clinton. "I'm not sure I'm a hat guy."

But Neal had spied a deck of cards propped between the oven and the small collection of half-empty liquor bottles, and he was too busy practicing trick shuffles and sleight of hand to reply. It took him a few minutes to get used to the size and agility of Clinton's hands compared to his own, and he had to be careful because of the stitches in his arm, but he soon found the knack and the cards flowed like water.

Clinton watched without comment for a minute, and then carried both coffee cups to the couch. Neal spent the next half hour teaching him card tricks. "It's ninety percent misdirection," he said.

They were already sitting close, but at that, Clinton pressed his knee against Neal's, sending unexpected heat prickling up Neal's thigh. Neal fumbled and the cards flew everywhere.

"See what you mean," said Clinton, blandly, "but I've got to get some sleep. Who knows what madness we'll face tomorrow."

Neal reached out with his good arm to gather the cards on the floor back together. "You know, this couch was not designed for sleeping. We could share the bed."

"I'm fine." Clinton took the red blanket that was folded on the back of the couch. Neal dropped his hat on the coffee table and got up to leave him to it, sorely tempted to make a move. Their situation could hardly get weirder, so there wasn't much to lose, and Clinton wasn't the kind of guy who'd hold it against him. And then Clinton muttered, under his breath, "And this time, stay out of my damned dreams."

"What?" said Neal.

"Nothing." Clinton plumped up a cushion for a pillow, avoiding his gaze. "Go to bed, Caffrey."

Neal sat down again, on the very edge of the couch. "Did these dreams happen to involve a feather bed and/or a flying carpet?" Clinton froze, and Neal's heart kicked into double time. "Well," he said, cheerfully. "This is awkward."

"Not really," said Clinton, recovering himself. He scowled at Neal. "They were only dreams."

Half-naked kissing dreams, which Clinton and Neal had shared over the last two nights. Clinton couldn't be immune to Neal, not after the way they'd touched each other in those dreams. But in their waking hours, he hadn't given the slightest indication he remembered. He'd hidden his reactions flawlessly. Neal's breath caught in his throat. It was ridiculous to find deception so attractive, Neal told himself, but then, his appetites had never been logical or smart. And it wasn't the deception per se; it was the sheer skill of it. Neal raised his eyebrows, keeping his gaze steady.

Clinton looked away. "You're in my body. I refuse to do anything like that with myself."

"Why?" said Neal. "You're hot."

Clinton flushed. "Because it's messed up. I mean, I get that you want to date yourself, but I'm not you. I don't—"

He vanished. Or, rather, Neal was suddenly on the couch, warmth in his cheeks and tension in the pit of his stomach that felt a lot like excitement, and he was looking up at Clinton in Clinton's body. Definitely hot. And maybe about to say yes. Neal let his lips curve into a smile. "Remind me to compliment Mozzie on his timing."

Clinton took a step back and bumped into the coffee table. "It's been a crazy couple of days."

"So what's one more crazy thing?" Neal stood up so they were eye to eye. "You want to," he said softly, letting that fall in the borderland between question and statement. "Come on, a little stress release. What's the worst that can happen?"

"Hughes finds out. I'm fired. You're sent back to prison." Clinton stuck his chin out.

"No one's going to find out," Neal told him. "And Peter said whatever happens is between you and me." He'd also told Clinton to be careful, but Neal figured he didn't have to repeat that; Clinton already had it covered.

Clinton frowned. "When did he say that?"

"At the hospital. He thought I was you." Neal moved forward.

Clinton took a step to the side and rubbed his forehead. "You're a dangerous proposition, Caffrey."

"High risks, high rewards." Neal smiled, sure of himself and getting more turned on with each breath. Clinton's resistance was weakening. He was going to give in, and Neal couldn't wait. "Come on, live a little."

Clinton let his hand drop and narrowed his eyes.

"I got you shot," said Neal, offering him an excuse. "Let me make it up to you."

Clinton let out a long slow breath and stopped retreating. He looked torn.

Neal moved in and clasped his waist, fascinated by his body, which had been fit and reliable from the inside, and now was new and exciting; strong, sexy, vital. The tension that had been building over the last couple of days in each of them and between them made Neal's skin tighten with anticipation. He let his hand settle an inch or two further down, gripping Clinton's hip. "Tell me you want me."

"I don't think your ego needs the encouragement," said Clinton, but his voice was rough, and he leaned in and kissed Neal, a firm, unhurried kiss that made Neal's eyes fall shut, made him sway forward so their bodies brushed. Clinton's mouth was hot and generous, teasing Neal's lips apart, and Neal slung an arm around his neck and pulled him closer, kissing back, trying to get under his skin and bypass that stubborn self-control. Clinton raised his head. He was breathing hard. "You know you don't owe me for getting shot, or anything else."

"I know." Neal bit lightly at the angle of Clinton's jaw, then murmured in his ear, "I want to suck you."

Clinton shuddered, and there, there went his restraint, snapping and twisting, and then he was pushing Neal down onto the couch and following after, his hands everywhere.

 _Yes!_ thought Neal triumphantly, writhing under him, reveling in his weight and meeting him kiss for kiss. Urgency was building like a tide, like the rolling crescendo of vast waves carrying him higher and further until consequences and better judgment disappeared beyond the horizon.

They tugged each other's clothes aside impatiently until they were near enough to naked, their bare chests pressed together, and Neal ran his hands down the long muscles of Clinton's back and remembered the splash of hot water, being inside Clinton's body in the shower, soap in hand. His heart thudded at the intimacy, how well he knew the body that was moving against his own, how completely he trusted the person inside it.

It was a struggle not to let down all his defenses. It was too much.

But before he could draw away, Clinton closed his mouth over Neal's collarbone and sucked hard, stinging the skin. Neal groaned helplessly and threw his head back to pant at the ceiling, forgetting everything but pleasure. His pants were still bunched up around one ankle, caught on the tracker, an unwelcome reminder of his situation, but he hooked his other foot around Clinton's leg. Clinton's body was sliding against his, hard and aroused, and Neal focused on that, hitching his hips up, over and over, seeking and finding intermittent relief.

He grabbed Clinton by the back of the neck and pulled him up to kiss his mouth again, maneuvering them both so Neal was on top. Clinton wasn't resisting; he seemed as desperate as Neal felt, and it had been far too long since Neal had sucked cock. Christ, nearly a decade. His mouth watered at the thought.

"Stay there," he told Clinton.

"What?" Clinton blinked up at him, dazed and confused and devastatingly aroused.

Neal slithered down his body to kneel between his knees, grinning to himself when he heard Clinton's faint "Oh." And then there was no more amusement, no more thought, just Clinton's prick in Neal's mouth, sliding thick and hard through the taut circle of Neal's lips, in and out, as Neal gave the best head he could and swallowed his own groans. He cupped Clinton's balls in one hand and gripped his thigh with the other, holding him in place, sucking wetly, enjoying the dirty, thrilling mess of it all, the shameless physical eroticism of being on his knees, getting Clinton off.

Clinton was still, tension thrumming through him, thigh muscles bunched under Neal's fingers, and he was swearing and saying Neal's name, hoarse and breathless. Neal sucked harder in response, and Clinton covered his hand, gripping so hard Neal thought he might break something. Neal tried to pull free, but Clinton hung on, though he loosened his hold somewhat. "Sorry, just—Christ!"

Neal stopped toying with Clinton's balls and instead smoothed across his belly, noting how the faint fuzz of body hair blended into pubes, how Clinton's skin was hot and slightly sweaty. Neal wanted to lick him all over, map out his body, make him come over and over. He wanted to stretch him out and tie him down and roll with him on satin sheets. To lie back and let Clinton make him come, giving up control and sinking into the moment. _It's just sex,_ he told himself. And maybe that was true, but fuck, it was _good_ sex, with Clinton hot and responsive, his heavy prick filling Neal's mouth. Neal felt more alive than he had in years, excitement building, anticipation pounding in his blood.

Clinton caught his free hand, pinning it to his solar plexus, and choked out, "Neal," a breathless warning. Neal pulled off a fraction, and then Clinton was squeezing his hands and coming in his mouth, pulsing bitter and hot.

Neal closed his eyes and savored the moment, the musky smells of skin and sex, the heat and sweat and, as he let Clinton's prick fall from his mouth, the brief rasp of his own stubble against the tender skin of Clinton's inner thigh. He swallowed, wanting to absorb the moment into his bones, to always feel this good.

Clinton pulled him up by his hands, pulled him into his arms and kissed him thoroughly, as if he were chasing his own taste in Neal's mouth, and Neal moaned and arranged him so they were stretched out together and he could thrust against Clinton's hip. It wasn't ideal—there was too much drag against the skin, but Neal needed something, and Clinton was still recovering—

No, Clinton was running his hand down Neal's side and slipping it between them to wrap around Neal's erection, to stroke him. Neal inhaled sharply and kissed him harder, sucking on his lower lip, and feeling the dark heat of arousal thicken and coalesce at the base of his spine, intensifying with each passing second, making him throb. He tore his mouth from Clinton's and pressed his face to Clinton's shoulder. His orgasm started to curl through him, and—

And he was on his back, physically glowing and sated, with his hand around—around his own prick, and his own body gasping, pressing its face against the side of his neck, Clinton coming in his arms. _Dammit!_

Neal nearly growled, mental frustration mingled with physical endorphins, creating a confusing and contradictory sense of incomplete satiation, distracting him from Clinton's groans as he came again, this time in Neal's body.

Neal let his head fall back against the arm of the couch and glared at the ceiling, visualizing wringing Mozzie's neck—not that he could ever explain why.

Eventually Clinton pried himself up, propped one elbow on the arm of the couch and held himself over Neal, resting his hand on Neal's naked chest. Neal raised his head to look at him, not bothering to hide his resentment.

Clinton's face was flushed and glazed, but even through his satisfaction, he looked sympathetic. "You okay?"

Neal took a deep breath and found his self-control and his manners. "I'm fine," he said, with as much dignity as he could muster. "But man, you _owe_ me."

Clinton laughed and pulled him into a kiss, apparently no longer bothered by the idea of making out with himself or lying naked with his own body, proving that even for Clinton Jones, pleasure could trump reservations, given the right circumstances.

After a minute or two, Neal sighed and accepted the irreversible facts of the situation. It wasn't Clinton's fault. And this body was warm and relaxed. And hell, there was always—maybe—next time. He kissed Clinton back, letting himself drift into the quiet drowsiness of the body he occupied.

"Mmm," said Clinton. He tilted to lie between Neal and the back of the couch, and Neal winced at sudden pressure on his bullet wound and nearly landed on the floor.

"Come on," he said, scrambling to his feet. He gathered up their discarded clothes and held out his hand to Clinton. "Bed's more comfortable."

This time, Clinton didn't argue.

   


## Chapter 4 – Wednesday

There was distant knocking and the less distant sound of running water. Neal was in bed. It was morning. He needed to urinate. He opened his eyes to check which body he was in—his own—and sat up, trying to get a handle on the day.

Seven a.m. That must be Clinton in the shower, and he must have snuck out of bed pretty stealthily not to have woken Neal as he went. Did his absence imply he wasn't open to a rematch, or was it a precursor to one? Neal was an optimist, and he needed to use the bathroom anyway. Maybe after that, Clinton would invite him into his shower.

But the knocking was back, not forceful but insistent. A knock that clearly said the knocker wasn't giving up until they roused someone, however long it took. It was probably a courier or a neighbor. Neal sighed, yanked on his clothes, ran his fingers through his hair and went to answer the door, trying and failing to come up with an explanation for his presence, in case he needed one. It was too early. He hadn't had coffee. He'd wing it.

He opened the door and a kid in red-framed glasses and green denim jeans pulled earphones from her ears and stared up at him. "Who're you?"

Oh hell. It was the girl from the kitchen in Philadelphia. Clinton's sushi-making niece, Vonnie. But Neal wasn't supposed to know that. "I'm Neal," he said. "Who're you?"

He glanced past her into the street, but she was alone.

"Siobhan Tanner," said the kid. She looked suspicious and stubborn, and her expression was so much like her uncle's that Neal nearly laughed. "This is Clinton Jones's house," she said. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." Neal wiped the amusement from his face. "He's in the shower. Do you want to come in?"

"Yeah." She preceded him into the living room as if she owned the place. Neal thanked God that he and Clinton had taken their clothes to the bedroom when they'd retired the night before, and that although the couch was a little rumpled, it was miraculously free of incriminating stains. Even so, he couldn't bring himself to let the kid sit on it.

"Coffee?" he offered.

"Yeah," she said again, this time sounding so carefully casual that Neal wondered if she was usually allowed coffee. But then, she probably wasn't supposed to turn up unannounced on Clinton's doorstep either, so Neal figured that scamming a little caffeine was the least of her sins. He took her into the kitchen to put the coffee on.

The shower water stopped, and Neal excused himself and went to stick his head in the bathroom door. "Hey, there's a Siobhan Tanner to see you."

"What?" Clinton was naked, scrubbing a mint green towel down his torso, and Neal feasted his eyes on him, since he clearly wasn't going to get the opportunity to indulge his other senses.

"In the kitchen."

Clinton's eyes widened. "Oh shit."

"I'm making coffee," Neal told him and went back to check that Vonnie wasn't getting into trouble.

She was eating a banana from the fruit bowl and frowning to herself as she rearranged the fridge magnets. Making herself right at home. Neal wondered how often she visited. After the night before, it was a jolt to be reminded that Clinton had a life outside of work and the craziness of the last two days.

Neal poured three cups of coffee and turned to catch Vonnie eyeing him speculatively.

"Are you his boyfriend?" she asked.

"No," said Neal. "We work together. So, you were just in the neighborhood, huh? Thought you'd drop by?"

"I need to talk to Clinton. It's private." She took her cup and spooned two teaspoons of sugar into it, looking like she was going to ask more questions, but luckily, Clinton came in then, with his phone pressed to his ear.

"She's fine, she's right here," he said. "Yeah. Okay. See you in a couple of hours." He hung up and shook his head at Vonnie, and she made a face, half-scowling, but she didn't resist when he scooped her into a bear hug and asked, "How did you get here?"

"I teleported," she said into his shoulder, her voice muffled. He squeezed her tighter and she squealed in protest. "On the train."

Neal watched for a moment, intrigued and endeared in pretty much equal measure, and then decided to give them some space. "I'm just gonna—" He pointed to the door and left.

He really needed to go to the bathroom.

He cleaned up and borrowed a tie from Clinton's less-than-inspiring collection. It wasn't up to his usual standards but it would do, and at least it meant he wasn't wearing all the same clothes as yesterday. It seemed likely Clinton would have to drive Vonnie home this morning, so slipping away to meet with Mozzie should be pretty straightforward. Neal felt in his pocket for his phone. Nothing. He'd—oh, he'd texted Mozzie at dinner, when he'd been in Clinton's body. His phone must be around here someplace.

He scanned the bedroom and the bathroom, and then gave up and went to ask Clinton if he'd seen it. Subtly, so Vonnie wouldn't ask any more questions about the two of them.

"—need you to tell Mom it's a really bad idea for Jessica to move in with us," came Vonnie's voice as Neal approached the kitchen.

Neal stopped and eavesdropped shamelessly, curious to see how Clinton would deal with the situation.

"Tell her yourself," said Clinton.

"I tried. She wouldn't listen." The fridge door closed and there was the sound of cutlery on china. Then Vonnie said, "I want to come live here with you."

She sounded serious and intense, but Clinton remained imperturbable. "No."

"But you said."

"I said after high school, if you decide to go to Columbia or NYU, then maybe," said Clinton. "For now, no."

"Why not?"

"Because you're fourteen years old and she's your mom." Vonnie tried to interrupt, but he overrode her. "What makes you think I'd be any easier to push around than your mom is?"

"More coffee?" said Vonnie, and Neal couldn't resist moving to where he could watch the scene play out. He leaned against the wall, staying quiet and unobtrusive, watching Vonnie try to be diplomatic and persuasive. Her smile was pasted on her face. "I'll pay rent," she said. "I'll clean my room."

Clinton folded his arms. "How would you pay rent?"

"I'll get a job as a web designer," she said. "Online."

Clinton looked like even his infinite patience was wearing thin, but he kept his tone level. "Vonnie, you are not getting a job, and you are not coming to live with me."

He injected it with enough finality that Vonnie 's shoulders slumped. She dropped the act and kicked one of the stools lined up against the breakfast bar. "Argh! My life is so gay!"

Clinton frowned. "Hey, what did I tell you about that? If you mean 'annoying', say 'annoying.' If you mean 'stupid and pathetic', say 'stupid and pathetic.'"

Vonnie glared at him. "You suck!"

"Better." Clinton squeezed her shoulder. "You'll be fine. You know, so long as your Mom doesn't kill you for running away."

But Vonnie was apparently too wracked with misery to be consoled. Clinton looked up and saw Neal standing there, and Neal gave him a little wave and a grin. He would have applauded, except that he wasn't prepared to risk inflaming Vonnie's martyrdom.

Clinton flushed slightly when caught Neal's eye, and Neal forgot all about Uncle Clinton dealing with Vonnie's teen drama, distracted by Clinton the hot sexy guy who'd stolen his orgasm. "Hey, Jonas."

Clinton shot him a warning glare, but the effect was ruined when he followed it up by self-consciously licking his lip and looking away. Neal did his best to maintain an outwardly calm exterior while inwardly cursing fate for interrupting their morning after. But before he could indulge in inappropriate daydreams, Vonnie sniffed dramatically and said, "Can we at least go to Forbidden Planet before we go home?"

"No," said Clinton. "I'm already going to be late for work." He ran his hand over his head, and Neal's fingers buzzed with the soft fuzz memory of Clinton's short-cropped hair.

Neal cleared his throat. "I'm looking for my phone."

Clinton blinked. "Oh, right." He emptied his pockets onto the counter: keys, two phones, a handful of change and the flight badge. He took Neal's phone from among the small pile of clutter and tossed it to him.

Neal caught it neatly. "Thanks."

Clinton wasn't listening. He'd picked up the flight badge and was turning it over. The feathers of its metal wings glinted in the glow of the kitchen's recessed spotlights. He looked up and met Neal's gaze. "Is this it? Is this what started it all?"

"I don't know. Could be." Neal watched him run his thumb over its edges. His throat tightened for no reason.

"But that was weeks ago." Clinton frowned as if he were about to say more, but Vonnie was peering at his hands.

"What is that?" She grabbed it from his grasp.

Neal reached over and plucked it out of her hands before things could go horribly wrong. "I think I should take that."

"But it's Clinton's." Vonnie frowned.

Neal winked at her and slipped the badge into his pocket. "Not anymore."

Her frown deepened. "But—"

"We'll talk about it later," Clinton told Neal meaningfully.

Neal nodded, suppressing a pang of regret: the jig was up. He told himself it was probably just as well. It was starting to get complicated and overly personal. And hey, it wasn't as if no good had come of it: Neal fully intended to talk Clinton back into bed. Given last night and Clinton's innate sense of fair play, he was pretty sure he could do it, turn their one-night stand into a twofer.

But for now, it was nearly quarter to eight, and he had to get to work. He retrieved his hat from the coffee table, angled it on his head and sauntered back into the kitchen. "I'll tell Peter you'll be late," he told Clinton. "Or, wait, it might be better if—"

"Yeah, I'll call in from the car," said Clinton. "Catch you later."

Neal nodded and held out his hand to Vonnie. "Nice to meet you."

She surprised him with a hug, which he returned, shrugging nonplussed over her shoulder at Clinton until she pulled back, prim and dignified. "It was nice to meet you too. I like your hat."

For a moment, Neal was sure there was something weird about that—a mismatch between her tone and the way she was standing—but he couldn't put his finger on it, and he shrugged it off. His instincts must be screwy from switching bodies and getting sort of mostly laid. "Later," he told Clinton, and he left, already figuring out his best approach with Mozzie and how to get the machine off him.

   
*

   
An hour later, on his way from Peter's office to his own desk, Neal stuck his hands in his pockets and froze. There was the crystal, but—no flight badge. He emptied his jacket and pants pockets onto his desk and quickly sifted through the small pile of belongings. Definitely no flight badge. And Vonnie had hugged him. He swallowed panic, prayed that Mozzie would lay off the machine for the next ten minutes and called Clinton.

"Hey, Jonas," he said, when he answered. "Any chance your niece is a pickpocket?"

"The badge?" From the sound of it, Clinton was still driving. "Hang on." His voice went muffled and stern. "Vonnie, did you take Neal's badge?"

"It's not Neal's," said Vonnie. "It's yours."

"I'll call you back," said Clinton.

"Yeah." Neal looked at the crystal on his desk. He could put it in a drawer or something, try to distance himself from it, but he didn't know enough about how the machine worked. He'd switched with Clinton while Clinton had been in the shower, so even if he was right that the badge and the crystal were terminals, he didn't have to have direct contact with them. And worse, if Mozzie activated the machine and Neal wasn't holding a terminal, anything could happen. Maybe Vonnie would swap with Mozzie!

That didn't bear thinking about. Neal put his things, including the crystal, back in his pocket and went upstairs to an empty interview room. At least if there was a swap, Vonnie wouldn't have to answer any questions.

A few minutes later, Clinton called back sounding grim. "I've got it and Vonnie's in big trouble."

Neal closed his eyes in relief. "Don't be too hard on her. She was retrieving stolen property from a suspected art thief. Maybe she's got a future in law enforcement. And hey, she's talented: I didn't even notice her lift it."

"Talented," said Clinton, clearly unimpressed. "She's fourteen and she stole it right out of your pocket."

"She's a prodigy. You should be proud." Neal grinned and checked the time on his phone. "I've gotta go." It was nearly ten. Time to meet Mozzie. "I'll see you later."

   
*

   
Mozzie was waiting on a bench near the Doughboy Statue in Chelsea Park when Neal arrived at eleven past ten. It wasn't raining, but it was bitterly cold, and Mozzie was wrapped in a shabby gray trench coat and a dark green scarf. His corduroy cap was pulled down low. He didn't look surprised to see Neal, despite the lengths Neal had gone to, to arrange the rendezvous through Hale. "You're late. Where's your Suit?"

 _Which one?_ Neal nearly asked, but he swallowed that and sat down next to Mozzie, companionably close without crowding him. "Are you okay? I'm worried about you."

"Worry about yourself," said Mozzie. "'All a man can betray is his conscience.'"

"Joseph Conrad," said Neal. "But I haven't betrayed anyone. This isn't Soviet Russia, Moz."

"Oh, and I suppose America is still a democracy in more than name only." Mozzie shook his head. "I should have known you'd swallow the FBI's party line eventually. You always were prone to self-delusion."

"Hey, sometimes the good guys still win," said Neal, annoyed. "We do what we can."

"And in those twelve simple words, you prove my point." Mozzie's eyes were earnest behind his glasses, if a little wild. "Neal, _we_ are not the good guys. _We_ never have been the good guys. If the good guys win, that means we lose."

"That's not—" Neal snapped his mouth shut. "Look, Moz, I just need the machine. Tell me what I need to do for you to give it to me."

But Mozzie was warming to his topic and refused to be distracted. "It is true, and you know it. And have your Suit friends ever once let you forget it?" He angled to face Neal, the better to make his point.

Neal thought of the night before. Peter might leap to judgement and suspicion, but Clinton knew Neal well too, and he'd still had dinner with him, traded stories. He'd still had sex with him. A small voice lurking in the back of his head whispered that maybe Clinton didn't know Neal that well after all, and maybe if he did, he wouldn't have given Neal free run of his apartment.

"'A friend is someone who lets you have total freedom to be yourself, '" said Mozzie. "Jim Morrison."

"And God knows you should take the advice of every sixties' rock star who ODed in a Parisian bath," said Neal, stung. "Has it occurred to you that having the freedom to be myself is how I ended up in a tracking anklet, in indentured servitude to the FBI?" He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. "I'm just saying, it's possible to disagree with someone and still have their best interests at heart. Case in point." He gestured between the two of them.

Mozzie stared back at him implacably, and Neal slumped forward, resting his elbows on his knees, tired and frustrated.

"Just give me the damned machine, Moz."

"Not until I know what it does," said Mozzie, stubborn as a mule.

Neal sighed. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"I've run a whole battery of tests on the thing—"

"Several times over, I'd say," said Neal. "You've been messing with me on purpose."

"Scientific inquiry requires a thorough and methodical approach," said Mozzie pompously. "And if you won't tell me what the device does—" He pulled something out of his pocket. A small remote-style switch. "—you can show me."

Neal grabbed for it, but he was too slow. One second, Mozzie's thumb was pressing the button; the next, Neal was driving a car, wipers swishing side to side and heavy traffic all around. Neal only just refrained from instinctively braking.

"Well?" said Vonnie from the passenger seat.

"What?" Neal glanced at her and refused to panic. He could wing it for a couple of minutes. If he could fool Peter, he could fool Vonnie. "I don't know. I have to think about it."

There was a good chance she was asking something outrageous, like whether she could declare herself an emancipated minor and move to New York to live in Central Park with the squirrels, or if she was old enough to run for President. He looked around. They were passing through Westampton, New Jersey on I-95 South.

"Okay, I'll choose," said Vonnie. She fiddled with her iPod and a pop song came on the stereo. She looked at Neal expectantly.

He raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"Sing," she said, and when the lyrics started, she started right along with them. Neal opened his mouth and tried to keep up.

Neal flubbed his way through a song and a half before he and Clinton switched back. He'd never been more relieved to find himself in New York, in his own body. Clinton had a great singing voice, but Vonnie was a critical audience and she kept hassling him for forgetting the words.

But that was over, and now Neal was back in the park with Mozzie. He wondered if Clinton had fared any better at passing himself off as Neal.

Given Mozzie was standing facing Neal, pale and frozen, with eyes like saucers, Neal guessed not. He ignored the swoop in his gut and went on the offensive. "What was that? Why did you—?"

"A consciousness-swapping machine. It's—the possibilities are endless. And the Nazis developed this technology? Perfect disguises, foolproof infiltration opportunities, secure long-distance swaps to convey classified intelligence. Even retrospectively, the possibilities are horrifying."

"Moz!" said Neal sharply. "What are you talking about?" It was almost certainly too late to bluff, but he had to try.

"Yes, yes." Mozzie blinked at him, his train of thought obviously hurtling out of control. He pointed at Neal. "Speaking of horrifying, you've been switching places—trading bodies—with a Suit. A Suit?! Why Jones?"

So he knew. Clinton must have told him the truth. There was no point denying it. "I don't know," said Neal. "We think it might be the badge from your flight suit. Remember, I gave it to Jones to pick his cuffs when Lawrence—"

But Mozzie didn't seem to be listening. "And how many times was I talking to a Fed when I thought I was talking to you?" His eyes grew even rounder. "He knows too much. This is bad. This is very, very bad."

"It's not bad; it's fine," said Neal firmly. "He doesn't know anything, and even if he did—Jones won't tell."

"How do you know?" Mozzie focused on him, his skepticism bright as an interrogation lamp. "Because he told you?!"

"Yes." It sounded less than convincing, even to Neal, but he knew it anyway, was bone-deep sure of it. He could trust Clinton. "We have a deal. Anything either of us finds out because of the machine is off the record."

"Oh my God." Mozzie started to pace. "Neal, I can't believe you kept this from me."

"Yeah, well, you blew up my paintings," Neal fired back, before he could think better of it.

Mozzie stopped in his tracks and turned to Neal, confusion written all over his face. "That's what this is about? Your paintings?"

"No." Neal stood up. The paintings were just the beginning: Mozzie had stolen the art from the U-boat and implicated Neal in the process, all without consulting him. He'd ridden roughshod over Neal's connections at the Bureau, all the choices Neal had made in the last few years. Mozzie would never believe that Neal had changed. He didn't want to believe it. Neal wasn't sure where he stood now on the cosmic scale of white hats and black hats, but that was something he had to figure out for himself. Being forced to run away wouldn't solve anything.

But if Neal let any of that slip to Mozzie in his current mood, Mozzie would probably kidnap him and try to brainwash him back into being the perfect criminal.

"No," said Neal again. "It's not about the paintings. But you can see now why I need the machine back, right? We have to dismantle it. Where is it?"

"I told you," said Mozzie. "It's at the warehouse."

"Right," said Neal. "Okay. Bring it to June's tonight."

Mozzie was pacing again. "What? Oh, not tonight. I can't tonight; I'm taking Hale the Degas. I'll bring it tomorrow."

Tomorrow was too far away, Neal wanted to protest. Every minute Mozzie had the machine was additional risk, but Neal didn't have any leverage. None. He clenched his hands in his coat pockets. "Tomorrow. Fine." His phone buzzed with a message from Peter: _Where are you?_ "I have to go." He pointed a stern finger at Mozzie. "I'll see you and the machine tomorrow."

On his way back to the office, Neal called Clinton. "Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," said Clinton, his voice warm and reassuring in Neal's ear. "Can't talk now. I'll call you later." Pop music was playing in the background as he disconnected.

   
*

   
They had a new case. "Forged bonds," said Peter, bringing up a picture on the conference room screen.

Neal studied the image critically. "Nice work."

"Yes, it is." Peter gestured to Diana, who opened a case file and slid it across the conference room table to Neal.

"There's more," she said. "We have reason to believe that whoever is behind these bonds is the person responsible for the flood of counterfeit money orders five years ago." They all started working through the evidence, constructing hypotheses and looking for leads.

An hour later, Neal came back from the coffee machine to see Peter hanging up his phone. "That was Jones," said Peter to the room at large. "He's been delayed in Philadelphia and won't be back till tomorrow." Peter looked at Neal. "Do you know anything about that?"

"No." Neal frowned, unease stirring in the back of his mind. "Is he all right?"

Peter was watching him closely but he seemed satisfied with Neal's response. "He sounded okay. Family troubles. Come on, we have work to do."

Neal didn't get an opportunity to slip away and call Clinton for another forty-five minutes. He kept his attention on the case and tried not to worry, but when Peter said they could break for lunch, he was on his feet before he knew it, phone in hand.

"Neal." Peter called him aside as he headed for the door. "I told El I'm bringing you home for dinner tonight. She's making Moroccan lamb."

Neal smiled to assuage any suspicions Peter might be harboring and tried to talk his way out of the invitation. "Oh, I really should—"

"You're coming to dinner," said Peter firmly.

Neal rolled his eyes. Peter's gestures of concern and friendship could be overbearing at the best of times. On the other hand, Neal had survived many worse things than dinner with the Burkes. "Fine. Thank you. Tell Elizabeth I'll bring wine."

He escaped, grabbed his coat and hat, and went up to the roof of the Federal Building, where he could be sure of privacy. It was still cold—enough that he half-expected to see snowflakes swirling in the air—but he couldn't risk anyone overhearing.

He was getting as paranoid as Mozzie.

He called Clinton. "Hey, what's going on?"

"I lost the flight badge," said Clinton. He sounded harried. In the background was the regular swoosh of windscreen wipers. "I definitely had it when I left Von at my sister's, I checked, and I've practically taken my car apart, but it's not here."

"Calm down," said Neal, thinking fast. This was bad. A missing flight badge meant Neal could swap with a random stranger at any moment. And if he dumped the crystal in the hopes that would sever his link with the machine, it was just as likely the stranger would swap with Mozzie—who might well be at the warehouse surrounded by stolen Nazi treasure. "Did you make any stops?"

"Gas station," said Clinton. "Someone jostled me in line, but I didn't think anything of it at the time and I didn't see his face. And if he did take it, it was a targeted theft; I've still got my wallet, keys and FBI ID, and my watch."

"Oh hell," said Neal. He went to the edge of the roof and looked out over Midtown. The crystal felt like a live grenade in his pocket. But surely Mozzie wouldn't activate the machine now that he knew what it did.

"Maybe Mozzie set it up," said Clinton. "When we swapped, I told him I was supposed to be on my way to Philly. Does he have connections?"

"Everywhere," said Neal. "He definitely could have orchestrated a theft."

"But why?" said Clinton. "Why not wait till I get back and just ask me for it?"

"This is the guy who installed video surveillance cameras in my apartment without telling me," Neal pointed out. "He's skating pretty close to the edge of sanity at the moment."

"Even for him," said Clinton.

"Yeah." Neal closed his eyes, wishing they could have this conversation face to face. Clinton was smart, and Neal could use a friend in his corner, with Mozzie in his current state of maximum paranoia and control-freakishness. "So, what's the plan?"

"The gas station's checking their security tapes for me," said Clinton. "I'm on my way back there now. If I can't get a lead—"

"If you can't get a lead, come home," said Neal. "I'll tell Moz the badge is missing. Now that he knows what the machine does, he won't risk turning it on if the badge is in unknown hands. And if he arranged to have the badge stolen, it'll be on its way back to the City, so there's not much point you chasing around Pennsylvania in search of it."

"This is my fault," said Clinton. "I was distracted. I should have been more alert."

"It's not your fault." Neal shook his head, even though Clinton couldn't see. He cast around for a silver lining or a loophole. "You know, we don't even know for sure that the badge has anything to do with the machine."

"Yeah, right," said Clinton. His voice was deep and serious. "Keep safe, Caffrey."

"Yeah." Neal shivered. "You too."

   
*

   
The last thing Neal needed in his present circumstances was to spend an evening under the watchful gaze of Peter Burke, Super Detective, and he arrived for dinner wary and braced for covert interrogation, but it wasn't like that. Satchmo greeted Neal more attentively than either of the Burkes, and while Neal poured himself and Elizabeth each a glass of the shiraz he'd brought, Peter got himself a beer and flipped on the evening news.

Elizabeth was cheerful and chatty, and Neal leaned on the kitchen island and listened to her talk about the soiree she was hosting at the Met in a week's time, and it didn't feel like a trap; it felt like friends. Neal hadn't realized how much he'd missed socializing with Peter and Elizabeth since the exploding warehouse and Peter's accusation, but it was definitely good to be back.

It had occurred to him on the way over that there was a chance Peter had a copy of the mysterious art manifest stashed somewhere in the house, and that Neal could excuse himself long enough to conduct a search, but in the end, it was enough to be there. The manifest, the stolen art and all their attendant consequences could wait. Neal was off-duty.

Over dinner they talked politics and music, and brainstormed about the new case, and once the three of them had cleared the table, Elizabeth disappeared upstairs saying she had to call her sister. Peter made coffee and sent Neal a crooked half-smile. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me what's going on?"

"I wish I could." Neal held the last of his wine up to the light, enjoying the play of colors. "It's not my secret to tell."

"Mozzie?" said Peter.

Neal answered him with a shrug. It was safest to let Peter think this was all about Mozzie. It wasn't far from the truth.

But Peter's gaze was searching. "Jones?"

Neal put his glass down and slid his hands into his pockets, the crystal hard and smooth against his fingertips. "It's complicated."

Peter nodded, apparently unsurprised that Neal wasn't going to reveal all. He got cups down from the kitchen cabinet and took milk from the fridge and put them all on the counter. The only sound in the room was the gurgling of the coffeemaker.

Peter looked at Neal, his expression warm and kind. "I just think, after everything you've been through, you deserve a little happiness." He arranged the cups so their handles all pointed to the right and looked up again, his smile turning wry. "So if you've got a shot at that, don't screw it up."

Neal shook his head. "Peter, I promise you, whatever you think is going on, you're wrong."

"You and Jones—"

"There is no me and Jones," said Neal firmly, sure it was the truth. Clinton wasn't serious about Neal, and he never would be, not if he really knew him. And Neal's life was enough of a mess without getting involved with a fine upstanding federal agent, however hot that agent might be. At best, they were friends now, and even that had no explanation that Neal could safely divulge.

Peter was already backing off, hands in the air. "Okay, okay. It's none of my business. Just do yourself a favor and think about what I said." He looked around as Elizabeth came back in. "Hey, hon. The coffee's ready. I'm going to take Satchmo out."

He called Satch and they exited through the back door, leaving Elizabeth, Neal and an awkward silence. Neal raised his eyebrows at Elizabeth and she grinned.

"Peter thought you might find it easier to talk to someone who isn't on the government payroll," she said.

Neal switched off the coffeemaker and started pouring. "That's very thoughtful of you both, but there really isn't anything to talk about."

"He said you and Mozzie are having some problems," said Elizabeth. She was poised to give him sympathy and advice, and for a moment, Neal was tempted.

"Yeah, it's just—" He looked down at her, so comfortable and happy with her perfect life. She was trusting and innocent, and she might consider herself one of Mozzie's inner circle, but she only ever saw the face he chose to show her. Neal poured milk into his cup, watching the rich black liquid turn pale. "It's nothing."

Elizabeth's smile softened. "Okay. But if you ever need to talk—"

"Thank you, Elizabeth." Neal carefully kept his tone light. "It means a lot."

Elizabeth patted his arm and moved away.

   
*

   
Neal's phone buzzed as he walked up the stairs at June's an hour later. It was a text message from Clinton: _Back in town. No luck finding badge. Where's machine?_

 _Mozzie's bringing it to me tomorrow,_ Neal texted back. He wanted to say more, something personal— _Shall I come over?_ Or _Call me._ —or even something more explicitly flirtatious, but at this stage, circumstances being what they were, Clinton needed to be the one to make the next move, if any.

Anyway, Neal would probably see him in their dreams. There was always that.

   


## Chapter 5 – Thursday

Neal woke the next morning exasperated with himself: he was already looking forward to seeing Clinton at work, which was stupid. Nothing else was going to happen between them. And he was pissed at Mozzie, his longtime friend and brother in arms, even though Mozzie had always been a demented backroom Machiavelli. Maybe he'd grown an order of magnitude weirder and creepier, but Neal had taken advantage of Mozzie's quirks often enough that it was bordering on hypocritical to start resenting them now.

Neither the anticipation to see Clinton nor the resentment of Mozzie were helpful, so Neal tried to squash them both, with minimal success. It didn't help that rather than dreaming about kissing Clinton, Neal had wasted the night on perfectly ordinary dreams that he could only remember in fragments, but which had definitely involved playing poker with Mozzie, using human knucklebones as chips.

Anyway. Today Mozzie would return the machine, Neal would decommission it thoroughly and irreversibly, even if it meant reducing it to its component parts and destroying them, and then they could get on with planning their escape with the treasure. This madness—not just the body-hopping, but the anklet, the work release, Neal's connection with the FBI—would soon be over. No more dinners with the Burkes.

He almost wished he'd said goodbye.

Which meant Moz was right. It was definitely time to get out of Dodge.

It was raining, light but insistent showers, and Neal took a cab to work. He stared out the rain-spattered window at pedestrians hurrying along the sidewalks, bundled up and hunched against the cold, armored with umbrellas, boots and hats. Other cars' tires swooshed along the wet road. Neal straightened the cuffs of his leather gloves and—

And he was standing in the warehouse, surrounded by Old Masters and gleaming gold. It was dry and temperature-controlled. The scent of decades-old paint and sawdust filled his nostrils and made him sneeze. He blinked at his hands: smaller, with pale skin, cheap silver rings and a fraying bracelet. His field of vision was constrained by glasses frames. He touched the top of his head: smooth and bald. "Oh, no."

He was in Mozzie's body. Panic rose up, threatening to choke him. This was wrong. He didn't want to be here. He had to reverse this somehow. He had to find the machine.

He wasn't holding the remote switch Mozzie had brought to the park yesterday, which meant the machine was probably on a timer. It had to be nearby: Mozzie wouldn't have moved it from the warehouse. Neal scanned the room, searching for a clue, but there were only paintings, crates marked with Nazi insignia, Mozzie's tools and a few disguises hanging from a wire in one corner.

He put his hand on the rough edge of a crate and forced himself to breathe. To think. Mozzie was making a point, reminding Neal of who he was.

Either that, or Mozzie needed Neal's body for some reason. Christ! Mozzie had hijacked his body. Neal should warn someone.

No. No, they'd find out about the treasure. Neal had to get himself out of this, out of Mozzie's body and away from the evidence. Back into his own skin, where he belonged. And then he had to find Mozzie and make him see reason, whatever it took. Even if it meant agreeing to leave New York today and never look back.

Blood was rushing in his ears, making it hard to think logically, but the machine had to be in one of the crates. Neal would just go through all of them, one by one, until he unearthed it. He found a crowbar, put it aside and started moving the art, stacking it out of the way so he could begin his search. There was a Vermeer, a Picasso, a Dali. He stopped.

He was holding a Rembrandt portrait in his hands, heavy and opulent in its original gilt frame. Light glowed out of it, highlights on the subject's cheekbone, the arch of an eyebrow. Neal stared at it, captured and enraptured. Humbled.

Simply being alone with these works of art was more than many people dreamed of, and here he was, able to abscond with them, to own them and keep them always, beautiful and priceless. Mozzie had given him this opportunity, and Neal had resented him for it. How ungrateful he'd been.

Lost in thought, he didn't hear the footsteps until they stopped right behind him and a familiar voice said, "Mozzie."

Neal lowered the painting carefully to the floor and turned, his heart in his throat.

Less than six feet away, Clinton Jones stood looking at him, amid the stolen wealth. His jacket glittered with raindrops. His expression was guarded, his eyes hard.

"How did—" Neal shook his head, trying to clear it. It was just Jones. It didn't matter that he knew; Neal could temporarily detain him and this time tomorrow, Neal and Mozzie could be on the other side of the world, free and rich, in the wind, and all the FBI's intel wouldn't mean squat. But the plan rang hollow, because it wasn't just Jones; it was Clinton—solid, honest, perceptive.

It was Clinton, and despite everything, Neal wanted him.

He swallowed and thought of the treasure, the plan, freedom. That was what mattered. He had to find out what Clinton knew, who he'd told. And after all, Neal was wearing the perfect disguise: Mozzie. "How did you find me?"

Clinton cleared his throat. He hadn't spared so much as a glance for the treasure; his focus was solely on Neal. "Yesterday in the park, you mentioned the warehouse on Gansevoort Street. I ran a search for new leases. From there, it was easy."

"Right," said Neal. "Of course."

"You arranged for someone to steal the flight badge from me in Philadelphia," said Clinton. He sounded firm, but not angry.

"Very perceptive, Suit." Given Neal's current situation, it must be true.

Clinton frowned. "You're messing with Neal, pulling his strings like he's a puppet. That's got to stop." He stepped forward. "I need that machine."

He looked grim and righteous. The overhead lights seemed to dim, and Neal wished the bulbs would blink out entirely, give him the safety of darkness, and he and Clinton could float away on a cloud or a flying carpet, but no such luck.

Clinton clenched his jaw. "Listen, you put my niece's life at risk, popping Neal and me in and out of the driver's seat of my car at sixty-five miles an hour on I-95. You're playing with fire, Mozzie. I want that goddamned machine before someone gets hurt."

In the absence of divine inspiration, Neal gestured at the row of crates behind him. "Help yourself."

Clinton looked around, unimpressed. "The treasure from the Nazi sub." His eyes narrowed, but he didn't reach for his phone to call Peter. Maybe Peter was already outside. Maybe Neal was surrounded, his whole life crashing down. "I don't care about that. It's not why I'm here."

"What? How can you say that?" said Neal, startled into an honest reaction. As awe-inspiring and valuable as the treasure was on its own, it would be equally impressive and career-enhancing in the form of recovered stolen property. "You're seriously not going to turn it in?"

Clinton didn't answer. "Whose idea was all this—yours or Neal's?" he asked instead.

Neal's instincts warred: to take the credit and forfeit Clinton's regard for him in the process, or to absolve himself and incriminate his long-standing partner in crime. There was no way to choose. "Whose do you think?"

Clinton's lips were a thin line. "We interrogated Neal all night after the warehouse exploded. He didn't know a thing. You brought him in after the fact."

"It's so sweet that you want to believe in Neal's innocence," said Neal, as waspishly Mozzie-like as he could manage. He picked up the crowbar, gripping it tightly to stop his hands from shaking. "He's not exactly a babe in the woods."

"I know that," said Clinton impatiently. "Neal's a thief and a damned good one. But he'd rather turn in a haul like this and win the praise and approval of his friends than hoard it in secret and have to hide his light under a bushel. He's not like you, Mozzie. He needs people." He put his hand over his gun. "Put down that crowbar."

Neal put the bar back on the crate, turning away slightly. "Maybe you don't know him as well as you think you do."

"I know him." Clinton said it with such certainty that Neal nearly broke, confessions lining up on his tongue, ready to spill.

"Oh sure," he shot back, fighting to keep his defenses up, his cover in place. "One roll in the hay and you know him."

Clinton stiffened; anger flared in his eyes. "He told you?"

"No. No, I didn't—" _Fuck._ Neal's instincts screamed to move away, to run, but he held his ground. "Clinton—"

"Neal?" Clinton's eyes were laser-sharp, seeing right through him. "Is that you?"

Neal held up his hands. He could bluff and misdirect, and if he tried, he could convince Clinton he was really Mozzie, but he didn't want to. He was tired of lying, of keeping everyone at arm's length. "I can explain."

"Later," said Clinton. "Right now, that maniac is walking around in your body doing God knows what." He pulled out his cellphone. "No signal."

Neal copied him. "That's strange. Mozzie's called me a dozen times from here. He must have activated his cellphone scrambler. Knowing him, it's probably hidden in the same place as the body-switching machine."

"Then we have to find it," said Clinton. He reached past Neal for the crowbar, and Neal smiled up at him, glad to be back on the same side. Glad to have him there, despite everything. He dropped his gaze to Clinton's mouth and—

—and was back in the cab. They were double-parked in Federal Plaza. The meter was ticking. "Are you done, or what?" asked the driver.

Neal had his gloves bunched up in one hand and held his phone in the other. There was a text message typed on the screen but not sent: _Don't worry. I'll take care of it._

According to the time on his phone, less than ten minutes had passed since he'd first found himself in the warehouse.

Neal paid the cab driver and stepped onto the pavement, heedless of the worsening downpour. He speed-dialed Mozzie. It went straight to voicemail with Mozzie's typical lack of a message. "Call me," said Neal. He hung up and tried Clinton.

Straight to voicemail. Hell. Neal looked around, ready to throw caution to the wind, jump back in the cab and pay whatever it would take to race to the warehouse, GPS or no, but the taxi had gone and Neal's phone was ringing.

It was Peter. "Neal, where are you? We have a crime scene to examine."

"I'm right outside," said Neal automatically. "Federal Plaza, but—"

"Don't move," said Peter. "We're on our way down." He disconnected before Neal could protest.

Neal took off his hat and raked his hand through his hair. People flowed past, Feds and office workers, a courier and a group of business women, as if it were just an ordinary day. Neal, paralyzed with indecision, might as well have been invisible. What would Mozzie do to Clinton? _I'll take care of it_ could mean anything, but surely it wasn't as ominous as it sounded. Mozzie wouldn't hurt Clinton. He wouldn't!

Perhaps Mozzie would try to buy Clinton off. Clinton would refuse, of course, but it would give him a chance to explain about his and Neal's non-disclosure deal. He'd convince Mozzie he wasn't a threat.

Clinton was a smart, experienced agent. He was armed, and he knew what Mozzie had done. He could take care of himself.

And Neal's hands were tied. If he ran off to the warehouse now, Peter would definitely check his tracking data, and that would be that. There'd be no excuses. Clinton might even get caught up in the arrest somehow.

Still, Neal was poised on the balls of his feet, sure there must be something he could do, some way to slip his leash. He was strung so tight that when Peter's heavy hand patted him on the shoulder, he nearly jumped out of his skin—figuratively, this time.

"There you are," said Peter. He cocked his head, studying Neal's face. "Your hair's getting wet. Everything okay?"

Neal managed to produce a smile. "Fine. Good. Where's this crime scene?"

"Uptown," said Peter, sweeping him along the sidewalk towards his car. "I'll fill you in on the way."

Neal sent a silent prayer to the god of thieves and criminals, and surrendered to Peter and Fate.

   
*

   
The crime scene led them to an underground market for rare Iraqi and Egyptian artifacts, which in the usual way of White Collar Unit cases, led to Neal going undercover at a moment's notice, this time as a smuggler looking to off-load some valuable pieces. It wasn't a stretch, but it was dangerous and delicate all the same, and it required Neal's full concentration.

He charmed and schmoozed and greased a few palms, working to keep his focus on the case and the cutthroat dealers around him.

Just after three in the afternoon, he excused himself from his new associates and ducked into the van to pick up his supposed wares, borrowed from the FBI's seizure storage locker. Clinton was in the depths of the van, apparently having taken over from Diana. He was leaning over the counter wielding a flashlight, doing something with the cables that fed into the backs of the monitors, so absorbed in his task that he didn't notice Neal's presence.

Neal listened to Peter, who was feeding Neal a whole slew of new information about their target, and watched Clinton. He looked fine. He looked normal. He was safe in the surveillance van.

Neal was relieved, and he re-entered the fray with an extra skip in his pulse from knowing that Clinton was among the team monitoring him.

It was a long day. Neal was brilliant, by his own reckoning, but they didn't get their target with enough evidence to convict him until nearly eleven p.m., at which point Peter, Clinton and SWAT charged in, guns at the ready, and Neal got the hell out of the way.

The bust went without a hitch. Clinton slapped handcuffs on the top dog and herded him and half a dozen of his cohorts back to the Bureau for processing. Meanwhile, Peter gave Neal a slap on the back and sent him home. Neal could feel the adrenaline crash coming and did as he was told.

His apartment was dark when he walked in the door. He threw his hat onto the sideboard, switched on the lights and looked around. Mozzie wasn't asleep on the couch or lurking in the shadows, but there was a cardboard box squatting in the middle of the table. Neal went over and opened it cautiously; nestled inside, in a bed of styrofoam packing peanuts, was the machine.

Relief and anticlimax sent him slumping into a chair. Mozzie couldn't catapult him into dangerous situations without warning anymore, or himself switch places with Neal—Neal's skin prickled with discomfort when he thought of being in Mozzie's body—but at the same time, the other swaps, the ones with Clinton, hadn't been all bad.

Neal pulled out his phone and called Clinton. "Hey."

"Caffrey. What is it?"

Neal leaned back in his seat, trying to detect any trace of welcome in Clinton's tone, but there were brisk voices in the background; Clinton must still be processing the black market dealers. "I need to talk to you."

"It's late and I'm kind of busy right now," said Clinton. "Can it wait till tomorrow?"

"Okay. Sure. I'll see you then." Neal hung up, refusing to be discouraged. Clinton was working—of course he couldn't drop everything. It was weird that he hadn't asked about Mozzie and the machine, even in passing, but like he'd said, they could talk tomorrow.

Neal sat and contemplated the machine, wondering what it would take to lay it to rest permanently and why he felt empty at the prospect. A gust of wind sent rain clattered against the French doors, bringing him back to himself, and he got up, drank a double shot of scotch and poured himself into bed, where he slept dreamlessly.

   


## Chapter 6 – Friday

When Neal arrived at work the next morning, Peter dragged him straight into a meeting with representatives of the Iraqi and Egyptian governments, at which the recovered antiquities were returned. Neal knew Peter was making a point—that the treasure from the sub was part of Russia's heritage and should likewise be returned—but he played along, politely greeting the dignitaries and accepting their thanks.

Afterwards, he went back to his desk to work on a plan for finding out more about the art manifest. Clinton came over with a coffee cup in hand. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

There was something different about him. The warmth in his gaze was shuttered away, and he looked impersonal and blank. The perfect G-man.

Neal cast his gaze around. There were people everywhere, no privacy at all. He told himself Clinton was just being discreet, but that didn't feel right. Something was wrong.

"Caffrey?" Clinton prompted him, raising his eyebrows.

"Oh, you know. Everything." Neal leaned forward, folding his arms on his desk, wanting to be closer.

The corner of Clinton's mouth curved up. "I don't have that kind of time. You want to maybe narrow it down?"

"Yesterday," said Neal. He looked around again, and lowered his voice. "Mozzie. The warehouse."

"What warehouse?" said Clinton.

"Never mind," said Neal, backing off, feeling stupid and disappointed. Clinton was prepared to stick to their non-disclosure deal despite seeing the rich array of stolen loot at the warehouse, but his doing so had exhausted all their warmth and goodwill. That was the obvious explanation.

Of course, given the strange occurrences of the last few days, the obvious explanation might not be the correct one. Was Clinton really who he seemed to be? Neal had the machine safely locked away: Mozzie couldn't be manipulating them anymore unless he'd built a duplicate device, and given how long it had taken him to construct the fractal antenna, there was no way he'd built a Nazi body-swapping machine in only a few days. So what the hell was going on?

For the rest of the day, Neal watched Clinton for signs and clues, and because he couldn't help himself. He stewed on the possibilities. Clinton behaved like classic Agent Jones. If he was an imposter, he was one who knew his mark well.

Mid-afternoon, Neal saw Clinton and Diana laughing together at the coffee machine and discarded the imposter idea entirely. It was definitely Clinton. And Neal knew firsthand how skilled Clinton was at hiding inconvenient feelings. Perhaps he was furious with Neal about the stolen treasure or even for not rushing to his rescue at the warehouse the morning before. Or perhaps he regretted what had happened between them and had decided the best course was to pretend none of it had happened.

Whatever it was, it was driving Neal crazy.

Neal cornered him as Clinton was packing up to leave for the day. He perched on the edge of Clinton's desk and spoke quickly, so Clinton couldn't cut him off. "Hey, listen, I'm sorry I couldn't get away to help yesterday morning."

"You were working the case with Peter," said Clinton. "Good work too. You've got nothing to be sorry about. Caffrey, what's going on with you?"

Neal frowned. "Nothing. It's not me." He summoned a smile and tried again. "You want to get a drink?"

"With you?" Clinton looked at him, genuinely surprised.

"Yes, with me." A small knot began to ache in Neal's chest. "Listen, I'm sorry if you think it was a mistake, but don't pretend nothing happened between us. I know I didn't imagine it."

He searched Clinton's face for a reaction, a betrayal of feelings—fury, embarrassment or desire—but there was only confusion. "What happened when? Do you mean the Lawrence case? That was weeks ago." He stood up and started shrugging into his coat.

"Jonas—" It was Neal's last shot, a desperate attempt to find a chink in Clinton's armor.

Clinton stopped with his arm half-way into his coat sleeve. His eyes widened. "Who told you about that? Was it Peter?"

Neal shook his head, speechless, as the truth struck home: Clinton didn't remember. He didn't remember any of it. The ache in Neal's chest deepened, burning cold and desolate.

 _I'll take care of it,_ Mozzie had said in his unsent text. Was this what he'd meant? Stealing Clinton's memories, erasing everything that had happened in the last week? And in the process, leaving Neal alone with all these feelings that had no context and no outlet. Neal was going to kill him.

Clinton had apparently given up on getting a response to his question. He finished suiting up for the weather outside. "Have a good weekend, Caffrey. Kick back. You seem like you could use some downtime."

He left without a backward glance, and Neal clenched his jaw and waited for the hurt to subside so he could make a plan.

   


## Chapter 7 – Saturday

Neal spent the next nearly twenty-four hours desperately trying to get in touch with Mozzie. He phoned and texted to no avail. He disabled Mozzie's spy cameras, in the hope of provoking a response. He visited all the likely haunts within his radius and phoned those that were beyond his range. He called hospitals and mutual friends. He got June and then Hale to phone and text on his behalf.

Radio silence. Neal was starting to wonder if Mozzie had fallen off the face of the earth—or if Clinton had taken him out at the warehouse—when Hale called. "Mozzie asked me to tell you to knock it off," he said, impassively. "He said he'll be in touch when he's good and ready."

Neal saw red, but it was pointless to take it out on Hale. "Thanks, man. I owe you."

He hung up and dropped his phone to the table, rage and frustration making him blind. His grip tightened on the coffee mug in his hand and he hurled it against the wall of the kitchenette, taking savage pleasure in the smash, the explosion of hot liquid and white shards flying everywhere.

The relief was momentary.

Neal stood there, shaking and trying to clear his mind. He had one more card up his sleeve, his _pis aller_ , and it was time to play it.

He changed into a three-piece suit, knotting his tie with precision and smoothing the line of his jacket, checking for lint. It was psychological, but it was the only defense he had. He ran down the stairs, calling a greeting to June without stopping.

The rain had passed, and the early evening was cold and clear, the pavements slippery with ice. It only took a few minutes to find a cab.

   
*

   
"Neal!" Elizabeth answered the door. "What are you doing here?"

"I need to see Peter," he said. "It's important." He stopped and took in her elegant hairstyle and her green silk dress. "I'm sorry. You have plans."

"Just me." Elizabeth waved him inside. "I'm having drinks with a client at six. Peter's staying home." Neal nodded, relieved, but she was already turning away, calling up the stairs, "Honey, Neal's here."

Peter ran down a few seconds later, light on his feet. He took one look at Neal's face and shepherded him into the kitchen. "Coffee, beer or wine?"

"None of the above," said Neal. He put his hands flat on the kitchen island and made himself say it. "I need your help."

Peter shut the refrigerator door without taking anything out and came to stand across the island from him. He looked grave, as if he understood just from looking at Neal that Neal's whole way of life was at stake. "What do you need?"

Neal opened his mouth, but before he could answer, Elizabeth bustled into the kitchen with her coat over her arm. "I'm heading out." She reached up to kiss Peter goodbye.

"Are you taking the car?" Peter asked.

She shook her head. "Client _drinks_ ," she said. "I've called a car service."

"Okay." Peter smiled down at her, his hand on her waist. "Go knock their socks off."

She sent Neal a small smile and left. Neal heard the door shut, and then it was just him and Peter. Peter who was watching him, patiently waiting for him to get to the point.

Neal gripped his hands together on the island and regretted not accepting a drink. At least that would have given him something to hold onto. But no, it was time to man up and admit he didn't have all the answers, and he couldn't do this alone. He took a deep breath and met Peter's gaze. "I need to go outside my radius."

Peter waited a few seconds, giving him time to elaborate. When he didn't, Peter shook his head and started making coffee.

"It's Mozzie," said Neal, in answer to the silent question. "He's—he did something, and I have to find him. He won't take my calls. I've tried everything else I can think of."

"So I'm your last resort," said Peter. He sounded wry, but there was no sting in it.

"I need leverage," said Neal, "and you're the best I've got."

Peter narrowed his gaze. "You want to use me as a threat."

"Basically." Neal tried to grin. "A doomsday device. Mutually assured destruction."

Peter didn't return his smile. "Neal, what's Mozzie done?"

"I can't tell you that. Not yet." Not while there might still be a way to keep his house of cards intact and himself and Mozzie out of prison.

Peter leaned in, compelling as ever, reminding Neal that he was a skilled interrogator, an outstanding agent. "But you will."

Neal thought of the warehouse, all that art, magical and timeless. The Rembrandt glowing in his hands. He thought of Mozzie in the park, paranoid and dangerous. Of Clinton's uncomprehending, impersonal gaze. Neal swallowed. "Maybe not today, but yes, I will. I promise."

Peter nodded. "Okay."

Neal let his breath out in a rush, feeling slightly dizzy. "Okay." He took the cup of coffee Peter handed him and set it down on the counter. "Give me your phone."

Peter surrendered his cellphone without comment, and Neal called Mozzie from it. He didn't expect an answer and he didn't get one. He left a message. "Moz, it's me. I'm with Peter. If you don't agree to meet me in Chelsea Park in half an hour, I'm coming to find you, and I'm bringing Peter with me. I mean it, Moz. I need to talk to you."

He disconnected and gave the phone back to Peter, ignoring the way his heart was thumping against his ribcage. The coffee was too sweet, but it was comforting, and Neal drank it anyway while he waited. After about a minute, he received a text message on his own phone. _29 minutes. Fine._

Neal mentally crossed his fingers and hoped that the message would be inadvertently prophetic. That it really would turn out to be fine.

   
*

   
Neal persuaded Peter to wait in the car. "I'm not reneging," he said, "but it'll be safer if I go alone." He couldn't risk Mozzie erasing Peter's memories too.

"Safer?" Peter looked grim. "What the hell has Mozzie gotten himself into?"

"You know Moz," said Neal, weakly. "He's all about the strange and bizarre army surplus equipment."

Peter sat up straighter. "Tell me it's not bioterrorism."

"It's not," said Neal. He reached for the car door handle. "If you don't hear from me within ten minutes, come and find me."

Peter checked his watch. "Ten minutes. Be careful."

And then Neal was out in the gathering gloom. It wasn't quite dark enough for the streetlights to make much of a statement, but night was definitely falling. Neal pulled his coat tighter around himself and went to find Mozzie.

He found him on the bench by the Doughboy Statue wearing a black wide-brimmed hat, a leather duster and a scowl. He looked like a gargoyle or a gremlin. "I'm here," he said gracelessly. "Where's the Suit?"

"He's waiting in the car," said Neal. "I'm sorry, Moz. I didn't want it to come to this."

Mozzie twitched his shoulders irritably. "What do you want?"

"I want you to come back to June's with me. We need to talk, and this isn't the place." Neal softened his voice, using all his persuasive skills. "You can tell me what happened at the warehouse yesterday, why you had to do what you did, and we can agree on a way out of the mess."

"And if I refuse?" Mozzie's eyes were small and gimlety behind his glasses.

Neal shoved his hands in his pockets. "If you refuse then I'm sorry, Moz, but I'm taking Peter to the warehouse tonight. Turning the art over to the FBI."

"You wouldn't." Mozzie bristled with outrage.

"I will if I have to." Neal beckoned to Mozzie, trying to draw him away from the park. "Come on. Peter will be looking for us soon, and that will only complicate matters."

Mozzie angled his head, letting light slip under the brim of his hat, and Neal caught a glimpse of the stony resentment on his face.

"Moz," he said softly. "We're friends, remember? All for one, and one for all. You can trust me."

"Friends don't threaten, and they don't fraternize with the enemy," grumbled Mozzie, but it was standard Mozzie kvetching, not the icy paranoia that had gripped him up until now. "Okay, let's get out of here before we're surrounded by SWAT and Secret Service."

Neal allowed himself a moment's relief, but it wasn't until he and Mozzie were in a cab that he texted Peter. _Everything OK. We're on our way to June's. Thank you!_ Then he switched off his phone and exerted himself to put Mozzie at his ease.

   
*

   
The shattered pieces of coffee cup were still strewn across Neal's apartment floor. It looked like a murder scene. Neal got a dustpan and brush from under the sink, rinsed out a cloth to mop up the coffee and started to clean up, using the time to gather his thoughts and plan his attack.

Mozzie discarded his hat and coat, poured himself a large glass of Lafite and settled in on the couch to wait.

Finally Neal came to sit across from him. Mozzie looked the same as always, cherubic and weird but essentially harmless. Even after all of this, it was hard to believe what he'd done. Neal needed him to admit it, and the simplest way to achieve that was plain talk, laced with flattery.

"You set Jones up," he said, breaking the silence between them. "You deliberately led him to the warehouse."

Mozzie swirled his wineglass like a Bond villain. "He's smart. He picked up on all my clues. It was easier than I thought it would be."

"Why in—" Neal swallowed a curse. "Why would you do that? Why?"

Mozzie pushed his glasses up his nose and sat forward. "Because you weren't listening to me, Neal. I had to make you see with your own eyes why extreme measures were justified. Jones knew too much, even before he saw the treasure."

Neal shook his head. "No, he—"

"You only see what you want to see," said Mozzie scornfully, interrupting him without compunction. "Listen, I know you like him, and maybe he's not so bad for a Suit, but it's better this way. Sever all ties."

Neal gripped his hands together, noting distantly how different they were from Clinton's and Mozzie's. His knuckles turned white. "So you erased his memories."

"Suppressed them," said Mozzie with a shrug. He buried his nose in his wineglass, but his gaze was on Neal, gauging his reaction.

"How?" said Neal. That was key. If he was going to reverse it—and he had to, there had to be a way—he needed to know exactly what Mozzie had done. "That's quite a feat."

Mozzie smiled. "The body-switcher wasn't the only machine on the U-boat." He pulled a small black cube, about three inches square, from his pocket and balanced it on his hand. "This and the body-switching device were the only ones that did anything. The others were too corroded. It took me a couple of tries to get it right, but it's not like Mr. 'I do ID' Devlin had anything worth remembering anyway."

"You suppressed Jones' memories," said Neal, dragging the conversation back on track. "You would have done the same to Peter this evening. That's why you have it with you."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures." Mozzie's smile faded, and he twitched, his gaze darting around the room as if he was expecting a trap.

Neal shook his head. "Moz, this isn't right. What's happened to you?"

"I realized I couldn't trust my partner," said Mozzie. He stood up, leaving the memory suppressing cube well out of Neal's reach, and started to pace, his hands sunk in his pockets. "Years of faithful collaboration, perfecting and carrying out plans and schemes. Risking my neck, my freedom and my reputation for your federal goons. Sharing a fortune beyond our wildest dreams. And now you're taking their side. Don't deny it—it's written all over your face. I can't trust you." He stopped a few feet from Neal and regarded him sadly. "But I've got a solution to that too."

Neal held up his hands to ward off whatever evil Mozzie was going to assault him with now, but Mozzie was faster and stronger than he expected. "No," said Neal, as a needle pricked his neck. He tried to fight him off. "Moz, no!"

It was too late. The room dipped and blurred.

Neal fell back into his chair—or tried to. He ended up sprawled on the floor, his leg twisted uncomfortably beneath him. "Jesus. What is that?"

"Amobarbital," said Mozzie, as if from a long way away.

"Truth serum?" Neal rubbed his face, trying to clear his thoughts, but the room wouldn't steady. It was nauseating. "You truth serumed me?"

"I had to get you to talk somehow," said Mozzie, ignoring the fact that he'd been going to extreme lengths to avoid just that for the last twenty-four hours. He sat on the edge of the couch, towering over Neal, making Neal think of gargoyles again. Gargoyles or vultures. "What's really going on here? With us?"

Neal covered his face and focused on the solidity of the floor, the ridge of the chair digging into his back, but honesty wormed an answer out of him. A slurred, indistinct answer, but an answer nonetheless. "I don't want to leave New York."

"Well, why didn't you just tell me that?" said Mozzie. "I'll tell you why. It's because you know you're wrong. You have nothing to stay here for."

"No, _that's_ why I didn't tell you," said Neal, dropping his hands. "I knew you'd freak out or refuse to believe me. Or both."

Mozzie blinked like an irritated owl, which was an improvement. Plus Neal's vision was hazy enough it almost looked like Mozzie was ruffling his feathers. "Is it the Suit?"

"Which one?" said Neal, and continued regardless, because whomever Mozzie meant, he was right. "It's both of them. Peter is my friend, and Clinton—"

Mozzie leaned back. "Clinton?" he repeated with distaste.

"Clinton is Jonas," said Neal. "Or he was, before you fucked with his head."

"You're blithering," said Mozzie.

"The thing is, Moz. The thing is—" It was hard to say, even with the drug loosening his tongue, but it was the only way to make Mozzie understand. "The important thing is that I trust him."

Mozzie sat forward and raised a finger, opened his mouth as if he were about to start lecturing.

"It's too late," said Neal. "I already do." He was starting to feel maudlin, and when Mozzie lowered his finger and slumped with acceptance, it made his eyes prick with tears. "I'm sorry, Moz. You did the best you could. I'm sorry I couldn't make myself into who you wanted me to be."

"I'm starting to wonder if you ever were," said Mozzie, sourly, but he had that tight look he got when he was trying not to feel anything. "I always thought ours would be a happy ending."

"We're too different," said Neal. Mozzie was logical, trusting no one; Neal had always cared too much. "We had a good run, but in the end—You're always saying I'm a hopeless case."

"A hopeless romantic," corrected Mozzie, as Neal had known he would.

Neal ducked his head in silent agreement.

Mozzie was quiet. "So that's how it is."

"That is how it is." He rolled his head back and looked at the ceiling, so he didn't have to watch Mozzie's reaction to his next revelation. "And tomorrow I'm taking Peter to the warehouse. I promised him." Neal swallowed. "So you should probably get packing and get out of there."

"Sweet Suffering Santa Claus!" said Mozzie, sounding so much like his old self that Neal almost laughed. Mozzie stood up and started pacing. "Are you out of your mind? He's a Fed. If you take him to the warehouse, you know he'll pin it on you. You'll be back in prison before you can say 'perfidy'."

"There are worse things than prison," said Neal. Being forgotten was high on that list; the cool blank look in Clinton's eyes. Neal shook his head, focusing his attention back on Mozzie. "You wouldn't take my calls. I did what I had to do."

Mozzie let out a sorrowful sigh and picked up the memory-wiping device.

Neal cowered. "Don't." He didn't have the coordination to protect himself. He could barely sit upright. "Don't, Moz!"

But Mozzie wasn't aiming it; he was giving it to Neal. "In case you change your mind."

Neal curled his fingers loosely around the cool metal edges, relief making him even weaker. The device almost slipped out of his hands, but he rested it on his leg just in time.

"Or in case you don't," added Mozzie. "The effects are reversible, at least in theory. I haven't tested it, but if I've analyzed the circuitry correctly—try the button on the right."

A lump the size of the Chrysler Building rose in Neal's throat. "Thank you, Moz." He wanted to give something back, but he didn't have anything more than a secret that wasn't his to tell. As soon as he thought of it, though, it slipped out. "There's—the FBI has an art manifest. I think it's from the sub."

The nostalgia on Mozzie's face wavered, instantly tinged with calculation. "Have you seen it?"

Neal shook his head, making the room wobble. "I don't know any more than that. Just—be careful, Moz."

Mozzie snorted. "Take your own advice, kid. I'm not the one consorting with government sharks." He took off his glasses to clean them. Without them, he looked older and more alone. "I hope he's worth it."

 

## Epilogue

Clinton, his head thick with memories of the last week, stood in the middle of his living room and stared down at Neal. He was a mess, sprawled on the floor, his hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, his pupils so dilated the blue was nearly invisible. He looked so vulnerable that Clinton's throat tightened, making it difficult to speak.

"If I ran, would you miss me?" asked Neal for the third time, serious, intense and obviously under the influence. "Jonas?"

"No," said Clinton.

Neal's face fell. "Oh." It was as much a breath as an exclamation. He closed his eyes, turning his head to the side. Somehow that only emphasized his pallor. "Oh. Well."

"I wouldn't miss you." Clinton moved forward to kneel beside him. "I'd find you and drag your ass back here." He put his hand on Neal's shoulder and the next thing he knew, Neal was in his arms, pressing against him as well as he could from his contorted position on the floor. His skin was overheated. Clinton could feel his heart racing and hugged him tight. "You're not going anywhere."

Neal snuggled closer. "Nowhere," he murmured against Clinton's neck. Distraught to smug in less than a second; that was Caffrey. "I love you too."

Clinton's breath caught, but he forced himself to stay logical. It could be the drugs talking. "You only noticed me because I was wearing your face. I think you'll find what you're looking for in the mirror."

Neal pulled his head back and shook it. "That's how it started, but not anymore, Jones-Jonas-Clinton. Now—it's not me; it's you." He touched his fingertip to the center of Clinton's forehead. "All you."

Clinton swallowed. "You know there's a difference between love and good sex, right?"

It felt like a ridiculous question to be asking Neal Caffrey, but then, Neal was a romantic. Maybe it wasn't so ridiculous after all.

"This isn't about the sex." Neal blinked up at him, distracting Clinton with his long, beguiling eyelashes. "The sex wasn't that great."

Clinton grabbed a cushion from the couch and swatted him with it.

"Hey, you stole my orgasm," said Neal, fending him off. He caught the cushion and tugged it out of Clinton's hand and then grinned up at him, gorgeous and close and there for the taking. "You owe me."

"Maybe when you're not stoned off your head." But Clinton bent and kissed him anyway. Neal's mouth was hot and sweet, and he responded with messy enthusiasm, turning Clinton on and making him wonder if it were possible to get a contact high from amobarbital. They shifted against each other and soon they were stretched out on the floor, side by side, all without breaking the kiss. Neal's body was pliable, almost liquid, and incredibly arousing. Clinton put his hand on Neal's ass to tug him closer, grinding them together, and Neal responded by sneaking his fingers under Clinton's sweatshirt and stroking the small of his back, sending shivers up and down his spine.

Neal tore his mouth away from Clinton's, breathing hard. "Want you to fuck me," he murmured.

Clinton screwed his eyes shut and tensed, assaulted by pornographic mental images and desperately staving off his orgasm. He made it, but only barely. Once the moment had passed, he touched Neal's face and said, "Not yet." Not while Neal was drugged. Clinton needed to be sure it was really what Neal wanted. But he didn't want to let him go either. "Come to bed with me."

They stripped down to their underwear—Neal with some help from Clinton—and climbed into bed together, and within a few minutes Neal was asleep, snoring lightly. Clinton spooned up behind him, holding him close. The anklet was smooth and unyielding against Clinton's calf, a reminder of all their potential complications, but he felt sappy and lovestruck, and for once he refused to think about the wisdom of the situation.

   
*

   
He was woken in the middle of the night by a low groan. "Neal?" Clinton groped for his lamp, turning it onto its dimmest setting. "What's wrong?"

Neal was sitting on the side of the bed, clutching his head. "Got any Tylenol?" he said indistinctly.

"Bathroom cabinet," said Clinton, but when Neal stood up, he looked dangerously wobbly. Clinton grabbed him and pulled him back down. "Stay here." He rubbed his eyes and went to get a glass of water from the kitchen and painkillers from the bathroom cabinet. Neal dry-swallowed two Advil, drank all the water and lay back down gingerly, facing Clinton. "Thanks."

He looked calmer; the worst of the truth serum had passed.

"Any time," said Clinton. He rested his hand on Neal's hip for a moment, meaning to soothe him, then twisted around and reached to turn off the lamp.

He could hear Neal's breathing in the darkness. He wanted to find his mouth and kiss him, but then Neal spoke. "I have to tell you something. I told Mozzie about the art manifest tonight."

Clinton closed his eyes. Peter and Diana had gone out of their way to keep the manifest a secret, even excluding Clinton from their investigation; the only way Neal could have heard about it was if he'd asked one of them about it when he was in Clinton's body.

"So, are you going to turn me in?" asked Neal.

Clinton reached out and switched the light back on. Neal winced, apparently still headachy, but Clinton needed to see his face. "Turn you in?"

"You saw the warehouse," said Neal. "The art."

"We had a deal," Clinton told him.

"I know." Neal looked serious. "But I broke it."

"Because Mozzie gave you truth serum," said Clinton. He searched Neal's face for a long moment, in case this was all a con and Neal was playing him, but he could only find sincerity and regret. Neal braced for the next blow. Clinton sighed. "Neal, I've known about the sub for weeks." Neal's forehead drew into a frown. He opened his mouth, but didn't make a sound. "The flight badge," Clinton explained. "I had it checked out: it's a World War II era forgery of a US Army Aviator badge. The Germans manufactured a small number of them for their spies. My expert didn't know about the body-switching side of things, obviously, but that plus you and Mozzie having the plane all ready to go—It wasn't rocket science."

Neal looked flabbergasted. "You knew, and you still—"

Clinton shrugged. "Hey, you passed up a chance to escape with a misbegotten fortune to save my life. I owed you."

It was just an excuse, really, and he saw the moment Neal recognized that, got the implication of how deep Clinton's feelings ran, had been running long before this crazy week started. It was scary, but Neal's soft smile helped to calm Clinton's nerves.

"Seems like you owe me a lot of things," said Neal, sounding breathless. He propped himself up on one elbow and kissed Clinton, first chastely on the dressing on his arm, then on his mouth, coaxing his lips apart and sliding his tongue between them.

Clinton tugged him so Neal was lying half across him, hot and heavy all down his side, but he kept their embrace tender in deference to Neal's headache. They moved dreamily together, and oh God, Clinton wanted him.

He distracted himself with teasing Neal, keeping it deadpan, as convincing as he could manage. "You know, sooner or later you're going to turn the U-boat haul over to the FBI yourself."

A strange expression crossed Neal's face. "What makes you say that?"

"Because it's the right thing to do," Clinton told him. "And I'm a good influence."

Neal laughed under his breath and guided Clinton's hand down to his swollen cock. "Influence this," he said, and gasped when Clinton did, first pushing Neal's underwear out of the way and then stroking him firmly, making him moan and squirm.

"Kiss me," said Clinton, and Neal touched his face and met his mouth as he rubbed into Clinton's fist in short, desperate thrusts. Clinton could feel him holding back.

Clinton bent his knee up, creating a space beneath the covers, and rolled Neal onto his back and then kissed his way down Neal's body, dragging the covers with him so Neal lay exposed in the lamplight, taut and beautiful, panting with need.

"Clinton, please," he said raggedly, and Clinton bit the jut of his hipbone and moved down, finally reaching his cock. Clinton had never done this before, but he'd been thinking about it a lot, and he was way too turned on to freak out. He kept it simple, using his hand and sucking only the head of Neal's cock into his mouth. It was enough. Neal grunted in the back of his throat and arched off the bed, coming in Clinton's mouth like a blessing.

Clinton flushed from head to toe. He kicked off his shorts, crawled up the bed and held himself over Neal, kissing him deeply and jerking off onto his belly, unable to help himself. Neal's fingers tangled with his, and when Clinton's orgasm caught him, it twisted through him, turning him inside out and filling him with warmth and love and hope.

   
*

   
The next morning, Sunday, he woke alone. The bed was empty, and he lay, eyes still closed, listening for sounds of life in the apartment—for the flush of the toilet or the gurgle of the coffeemaker. Nothing.

What if it had all been the drugs?

He made himself open his eyes and check the clock. Eight a.m. Neal's clothes were gone. Neal was gone.

Clinton's phone buzzed, and he recognized it as a repeat of the sound that had woken him. He lunged across the room. There were two texts, both from Neal: the first read _Are you awake yet, Jonas? Rise and shine._ The second said, _77850 Gansevoort. Hurry!_

Clinton dropped the phone and grabbed yesterday's clothes. Mozzie must have Neal again, must be up to another impossible nefarious scheme. Clinton dressed at top speed, grabbed his keys and his phone and raced to his car. There was no time for coffee, but adrenaline served nearly as well.

He'd been on the road less than five minutes when Peter called. "Jones?"

"Yeah," said Clinton. "What's going on?"

"Meet me at 77850 Gansevoort Street," said Peter. He sounded like he was calling from his car.

Clinton ran a yellow light. "I'm on my way."

   
*

   
By the time Clinton reached the warehouse, Peter's car was already parked outside. Clinton slammed his car door and pelted inside. And stopped.

The warehouse was noticeably emptier than the last time he'd seen it. All traces of Mozzie—his clothes, his tools—had vanished. And Neal and Peter were standing in front of a stack of paintings.

Clinton took a deep breath, getting a grip on his panic, and walked over to find out what the hell was going on.

"It's not all of it," he heard Neal say as he approached.

Peter looked around at the dozen or so stacked crates. "I'd say it's about half. Where's the rest?"

Neal shrugged. "Could be anywhere. I don't know." He saw Clinton approach and met his gaze, and the corner of his mouth turned up, but he didn't say anything, turning back to Peter instead. "I couldn't have done this without Clinton and Mozzie."

"Speaking of Mozzie, where is the little guy?" said Peter. The lift of his eyebrow suggested he'd already put two and two together—both with regard to the theft of the treasure and Neal's use of Clinton's name.

Neal slid his hands into his pockets. "Mozzie left town in protest at me turning the art in to the FBI."

"He did, huh? Some friend." Peter ran his hand over his head and looked again at the stack of paintings, this time as if they might be booby-trapped.

"He has his principles," said Neal mildly. "They're just at odds with—"

"—the law?" Peter finished for him.

"Sometimes," said Neal, confirming nothing.

Peter shook his head and let out a breath. "I really thought you did it."

"You were wrong." Neal shot him a look that was heavy with reproach. "I told you so."

Peter snorted a laugh. "Apparently I underestimated that little shiny head of his." He went to the nearest crate and lifted the lid, revealing strands of pearls and a pair of golden candlesticks.

Clinton held his breath. If Peter asked how long Neal had known about all this, the situation could still end in disaster, and the thought of Neal being sent back to prison now was unbearable. But apparently Peter was willing to let it pass. He returned the candlestick to its bed of straw and came back to Neal and Clinton.

"Neal, I owe you an apology."

"I know," said Neal, with a wry grimace. And then somehow they were hugging, the two of them. It was a friendly hug—nothing to be jealous of, Clinton told himself, but he was still glad when Peter slapped Neal on the back and let him go.

"I'd better get a team in here." Peter got his phone out and moved away, giving Neal and Clinton space to talk.

Clinton bit his lips together, not sure where he stood now, in the cold light of day. Had last night been closure or the start of something new? Would Neal admit it had happened at all? He looked so different from the rumpled spaced-out mess of the night before, he could almost be a different person: cool, confident, at peace with the world.

He came over to Clinton, moving in close, and said quietly, "I would have woken you, but you looked so peaceful, and I'd already kept you up half the night." He tilted his head, and Clinton's pulse quickened at the brazen desire in his gaze. "Plus, I might never have made it out of bed, and I had to get this done."

"It's done," said Clinton. "Good for you."

"A clean slate." Neal caught him by the arm and pressed a firm, simple kiss to his mouth, stealing Clinton's heart and dispelling any lingering concerns. Clinton glanced over his shoulder, but Peter had his back to them and was talking on his phone. There was no telling if he'd seen. Clinton didn't care. He felt Neal's hand slide down his arm, leaving a trail of heat even through his clothes.

When they were palm to palm, Clinton laced their fingers together and squeezed. "Come on," he said. "I'll buy you breakfast."

 

END


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